Lucky Lady
by Number One Fan of Journey
Summary: Fifteen-year-old Circe Heron is selected for the Hunger Games by sheer chance. She already has little prospect of survival, but it's obvious all support is heading for her districtmate. Can she survive, completely on her own? Rated T just in case.
1. Day in the Life

**A/N**: Sorry, everyone, here is the real first chappy. Just now realized I posted the second one twice.

"Hey, Circe, you a little anxious for school to be out?"

I jerk up, realizing I've started to pound my pencil eraser on the desk again, and drag my gaze away from the literature classroom's clock—which I _swear_ is running slow today—toward the classmate who teased me.

Iah is still grinning at me with his overly-shiny teeth. There's nothing wrong with them being white—they have to be perfect, after all, if his dentist family is to have any credibility—but it's such a rare quality in District 4 to have enough time for something like that that we get used to having yellowish teeth.

"Well, you know my dad's off today," I reply with a smaller smile.

"Ah, yeah," Iah sighs. "But that's no reason to slack on your rhetoric homework!" he nags with feigned seriousness.

"Yes, it is!" I stick my tongue out at him.

And it definitely is; I can't manage to stay awake in the late hours when Dad comes home and when he leaves for work, and he only gets a whole day off once a month. Now's one of those days, when I get to rush home and work with him instead of Mom.

I certainly have no problem working with my mother, but the only thing we discuss is the job—our next box of salmon, how the new knifes can cut slices so much thinner. But when Dad's here, his goal has nothing to do with making jerky. He's much more concerned with my life, my schoolwork, my friends, and most of all, making me smile.

Of course, I know this is Mom's only consistent job, while Dad is out catching the live stuff every day, but it's still so nice getting to chat with Dad.

The clock ticks more slowly than my recurring eraser-pounding thumps, and I'm about to start tapping my foot as well when I'm interrupted by an over-exaggerated sigh.

"Come on, Circe, the world's not going to end if you can't get home right this second," Laima huffs.

Laima's not exactly the girl I'd call my best friend, but we manage to get along most of the time. We're both in the same general meat-preparation business—though, of course, almost all women in this part of the district, The Tip, are—and we're both the only children of our respective families, but the similarities, for the most part, stop there. She's annoyed by almost _everything_ I say and do, and I'm in turn annoyed by her annoyance.

"Maybe not for you," I reply with a roll of my eyes.

"Yeah," Iah throws in, "_she_ might just have a heart attack, you know!"

I roll my eyes once more before subconsciously thumping my eraser on the desk again.

The minute hand is so close, so very close…

_Ringdingdingding!_ I leap out of the chair-desk and sprint out the green classroom door, down the short hallway, and out the front door.

The salty tang of gulf air meets my nostrils as I start down the town's main gravel roadway. My little house is still a few minutes away, but today's not the day to stroll it with my friends; I couldn't stand to miss a second with Dad.

The halfway mark between school and home finally whizzes by; the tracks don't manage to trip me up and give me a very mockable bloody nose this time around.

I pass the bread market, where I mostly go for ingredients for the jerky rub, and the tiny chocolate store, where I've been known to blow my small allowance instead of being responsible and getting something generally regarded as useful. The blue plumber's place, where I luckily haven't needed to go, whizzes past, and I finally enter my little neighborhood.

There are exactly fourteen houses before my own. House number one is some sort of refurbished something-or-other—it's not the typical size or layout of a normal house. I think some sort of artist or decorator lives there. The next houses are nothing special—nothing standing out from the omnipresent soaked wood, and no one I know.

Iah lives in house number eleven. It's one of the nicer houses, with some brick on its walls and some lights for use on cloudy days. They mostly serve the richer part of the town—most of us workers aren't that concerned about our teeth—but the occasional newcomer who's desperate not to lose his last two teeth will show up every now and then.

My pace slows; I've finally arrived at house number fifteen. I only take a moment to catch my breath before parading through the front door with no handle and quickly passing to the utility room. I open up the little door between me and the family jerky factory and pad down the stairs.

The room is already filled with fluorescent blue light, so I'm obviously not the first one here. My heart speeds up as I catch a glimpse of a figure behind the seasoning table.

"Da—"

"Hello, Circe. You're home early."

My mood sinks as I register my mother's voice.

"Yeah, I…" I step over toward the table enough to make out Mom's ponytailed silhouette. "I thought Dad was here. Where is he?"

"He's at work, still," she informs, picking up a newly-dipped slice of salmon and pinning it to the drying line right above here. I slowly crank the stiff lever in front of me, scooting the jerky-to-be and all its neighbors over a few inches.

"But why? Isn't it his day off?" I ask softly, my good mood still dropping like a stone in the Gulf.

"Circe," Mom sighs, "you know we haven't been as… well-off as usual lately. He needs to work overtime, and help bring in a little extra cash. Speaking of which, you need to get to work since you're here."

I nod and step over a table to slice some of the mounds of salmon that have already been laid out.

"But, why didn't you tell me?" I ask, trying not to sound too disappointed as I pick up the thin, sharp knife.

"It was a last-minute decision," Mom tells me, barely audible over the creak of the drying-line rigging as she moves it. "Besides, you'll still see him tomorrow, for…" She trails off so she doesn't have to mention it.

The Reaping.

"You know that's not the same," I mutter, walking over the ten slices of fish I'd prepared.

"Of course I do," Mom sighs. "But once it's over, we'll have a nice family supper." Her voice sounds oddly high-pitched and superficial all of a sudden.

I guess she's just worried about me. There's nothing wrong with that, of course, but I can't say her panic doesn't affect me.

I'm fifteen this year—though I'll be sixteen just two days after the Reaping—and I've never signed up for tessarae, so I don't have a particularly high chance of my name being drawn.

But my hands are still shaking, and I cut an awkwardly thick piece of fish before taking a second to cool down.

Why should I be worried? For the last eleven years, every year but the very first, someone has volunteered for the original tribute. This is District 4, after all, and we train winners. Why would someone like me end up sticking around for the Hunger Games?

I've sliced up two more boxes of salmon before Mom dubs it time for supper. She heads into the kitchen as I gather up today's scraps—the three pieces I messed up, and some fish that had defect—sort them, throw out the particularly bad bits, and pad up the stairs to the kitchen.

Mom's already started our usual stew with her odd-tasting broth and some assorted veggies. I walk up and let her see the fish I brought before throwing them in.

She continues to stir and throw in something powdery as I take a seat at the rickety, old dinner table. We have three mismatched chairs, the largest of which I hardly ever get to see in use. I always sit in the smallest, a faded, green lawn chair, and Mom sits in the wooden chair, whose back right leg is so short we have to use a sizeable chunk of wood to right it.

Dad's is a large, circularly-backed metal chair, with some spots of rust on the top and a dull, beige cushion in its seat. I can only look at it and wish Dad would somehow appear for dinner, joke around and entertain us with odd little happenings out on whatever lake he'd been fishing at. Then we'd all go down to make more jerky, and he'd figure out a way to make even my rhetoric homework fun.

But it's suppertime, and as Mom sets down our mismatched bowls full of stew, there's no sign of a magical appearance by Dad.

We sit and eat quietly, as is usual. After all, Mom's never very interested in what happens at school; there's usually not much, except some funny things, but I've never heard her laugh. The only thing she'd be concerned about is if I'd gotten into drugs or something, but there's no way we could afford that, anyway.

We both finish at about the same time; Mom gets up to do the dishes, and I start for the jerky factory.

I've had about enough of slicing for today, so I decide to take the spicing. There are only a few slices Mom haven't dipped and pinned yet, and I don't think she'll get down and have another fish chopped up for me by the time I've finished them, so I take a look around.

The lines of suspended jerky zigzag across the low ceiling, all the way to the far door that houses the oven. There, we crank up a hot fire under a large rack of slices to dry them out more quickly.

But now I hear the door from the utility room open, and I turn to the dry rub as Mom understands my position and heads for the slicing table.

We slice and spice another box of fish before Mom tells me to go ahead with my homework.

I head toward my room, which consists of a mattress, a table, a lamp, and a nice candle to light when the lamp doesn't work. I end up lighting up the candle—might as well save electricity when our family is struggling, after all—and I shuffle through my bag to find my homework.

I pull out the pages and get started, even though I barely know what I'm doing. Doesn't help to pay attention in class when I get overexcited about Dad coming home.

By the time I'm finished, I can tell it's pretty late—my body is definitely ready for a good night's sleep. If only I could tell it to stay awake so I could see Dad…

But it won't happen, and I've only just gotten settled on my bed before I doze off.


	2. Just my Luck

"Hey, kiddo, time to wake up." A hand nudges my shoulder and I drowsily open my eyes.

"Dad!" I surge forward and embrace him, all sleepiness forgotten.

"Mornin', kiddo. Ready for breakfast?" he asks, hand on my short, blonde curls.

"Yes!"

Dad gets off the bed, and I start to follow.

"Oof!" I look up and realize I've rolled off the bed. And that Dad didn't wake me up. I rub my head unenthusiastically and stand up, wobbling a bit as I throw the thin sheet back over the mattress.

"Circe? Are you awake yet?" calls Mom.

"Yeah! Just barely."

"Okay. Come in here; I've got breakfast ready!"

"Coming!"

I rub the sleep out of my eyes and fumble over to the kitchen, where I can smell the meal: eggs and some of our marinated tuna jerky.

We don't make as much marinated jerky; we have to use more marinade for less jerky, and we could make at least three times as much spiced jerky with the time it takes for those things to soak. We do make them occasionally, though; there's a very small community in the Capitol that just _loves_ them. Otherwise, it's certainly not a cash cow.

I seat myself—Mom's already brought over my chipped-up plate—and then Mom takes her seat. She starts eating.

"Shouldn't we wait for Dad?" I question, poking at my jerky ration.

"Circe, he's exhausted. The least we can do is let him sleep in."

"But that's—"

"Honey, we won't have enough time to get cleaned up and dressed up for… today's event if we don't eat now."

I frown, but she's right. In District 4, the Reaping starts at 8:00 sharp. And Mom and I aren't exactly known for throwing even our everyday clothes on quickly.

I finally start eating the jerky, which is badly over-marinated—of course, that's the only situation where we get to eat our own product—and in a few minutes, Mom's scrubbing the dishes. She tells me to go take a bath, and she'll do my hair when I'm done. Even though my hair is so short that there's really nothing she can do with it.

I head for the bathroom, anyway and look the tub over. I can tell Mom's emptied it out and tried to scrub off some of the marinade we normally keep in there, but it still smells like barbeque and salt.

Regardless, I take my bath and get myself dried off. I take care to throw my natty sleep clothes back on before calling Mom in—I forgot to once, and believe me, I still haven't seen her that freaked-out since. She pops in and brushes my hair, being very careful to give me a perfectly straight part. We exchange a smile, I go to my room, and she closes the bathroom door behind me.

The closet door opens. I would normally wear my sleep clothes on a Saturday, since I rarely leave the jerky factory on the weekend, but since it's the day of the Reaping, I have to dress up nice. Though I certainly don't have a problem with that.

I pull out my only dress—a nice, slightly dirty one that I only wear to the Reaping. It's short-sleeved, but the hem reaches my ankles. The whole dress is off-white, save for a small, pink ribbon at the waistline that's dotted with several off-white, cloth flowers. There's physically nothing wrong with it, but I've been begging my mom to get me a new one since the last Reaping.

Of course, not many people _would_ want to keep what she was wearing the day her friend was called to her death.

Her name was Chania. She would have been fifteen this year, too. We were best friends in school, but when she turned twelve, she started disappearing—coming in late, leaving early, and more often than not she wouldn't show up for school at all. I finally caught up to her a few months after this started, and she didn't hesitate to tell me what was going on.

She was being trained for the Hunger Games. It got her out of school, and she would bring honor and fortune to the district, so she was excited to be part of it. I was a bit scared about it at first; I mean, it's still technically illegal to do such a thing—though the Capitol doesn't seem to mind—and I didn't really want my best friend volunteering for a sick sport like the Games. I let her continue nevertheless.

But last year, when a particularly scrawny-looking twelve-year-old girl was called, Chania volunteered. I was still unsure—the other Career tributes had always gone in at fifteen and sixteen—but the whole reason for Chania's doing this was what she called "a noble purpose". I guess she was happy to keep a sure-to-lose tribute away from the battlefield.

And she did incredibly well for the first part of the Games that year. She was an expert at throwing… well, pretty much anything, and she could always figure out a way to get water, unlike most of the other tributes in desert arena. I thought for sure she was going to win, and she hadn't even had to kill anyone yet.

But then Rowan arrived. He was a cattle-roper from District 10, and he didn't look that much, but he went on to win the 12th Hunger Games. Chania was just another one of his victims, her life taken by his uncuttable noose.

"Circe!" I'm snapped back to the present by Mom's call. "Are you ready yet?"

"Almost!" I zip up the back of the dress I'd rather not look at anymore and fish through the closet for some suitable shoes. The ones with the least scratches—some thin, brown ones—find their way onto my feet, and I shuffle out of my room.

"All right, we should probably get going now," Mom says, walking toward the front door and setting her hand in the hole where a doorknob once was. I check the house clock—it's 7:30—and follow her.

"Is Dad ready?" I ask, looking to see if he's up and about yet.

"He's running late today," Mom answers promptly, swinging the door open. I pout and stomp around behind her. "Circe, be mature. You'll get to see him at lunch once this is over." Still unhappy, I march behind her, shutting the old glass-and-wood door behind me.

It's about the time everyone around here starts heading for the Reaping, and the streets show it. Even Marty, the old dog that somehow totes around his family's four-year-old on his back, is shuffling along in the dirt. Mom and I are caught in the small crowd until the neighborhood ends and the road widens and turns to gravel. The neighborhood crowd breaks up some, but now others from the district are gathering, and I end up having to trudge along in the block of citizens. I blankly imagine I'm in a school of fish before realizing the fish would be traveling much faster.

Eventually, though, we're past the train tracks and the school, and we near the town square.

I think it's quite odd that we call it the town square, it's so blatantly circular. It still has all the goodies a town square would have: a wide open plaza, stores, the Justice Building, even a huge dock most of the saltwater fishing boats tie to. Today the plaza's platform is occupied. Two oversized fish bowls filled with death orders are positioned atop grand pillars, and Mim Clastrop, District 4's representative, is tapping about excitedly with her six-inch-tall heels.

I don't understand the Capitol. There is, of course, the obvious insanity of making children kill each other, but besides being insane, they're just weird. I've seen only the required few Capitol specials on the family television, and I generally don't pay attention to the citizens onscreen, but Mim is an outstanding example of how bizarre the fashions are. She's always talking in that ridiculously high-pitched Capitol accent, and she's always wearing some dress with random portions replaced by conflicting colors. Her poofy hair is dyed an eyesore shade of yellow, and her skin is practically covered in silvery tattoos.

Now that everyone's signed in and situated in his or her correct age group, Mayor Trowbridge, a very short, balding, brown-haired man, steps up to the platform as Mim respectfully steps down, taking a seat next to District 4's three champions. The mayor starts his yearly ramble about the destruction and disasters and the other assorted lovely things leading up to Panem's establishment. He continues on to the rebellion, how foolish the districts were and how much we truly owe the Capitol. He explains the rules of the Hunger Games, which we know all too well, and lists off our previous winners.

There's Mill Holtlem, a well-built male who won the 3rd Games at the age of sixteen.

Next is Lily Atoi, the only female, and very sinister-looking, who dominated the 8th Hunger Games when she was fifteen.

And the last is Ime Enneya, a dark-skinned, less bulky boy than Mill. He won the 10th Games for us when he was sixteen.

Mayor Trowbridge nods and steps back, and Mim clomps up the few steps to the platform eagerly.

"And a happy Hunger Games, all!" she trills in her odd accent. "May every last one of you have the _very_ best of luck! Shall we select the lucky lady now?"

No one really responds, although it's obvious Mim meant it to be a crowd-animator.

Of course, it may have helped if anyone felt it was lucky right now.

Mim taps over to the girls' fish bowl and dips her two-inch-long, purple fingernails to the very bottom of the jar. She pulls out a slip and inhales drastically to read it.

"Circe Heron!"

My heart stops. I should probably start making my way up there, but I can't seem to move.

Did she really call my name? I'm only in there a couple of times. I'm not eighteen. I haven't taken any tessarae. How could it be me? The odds were for me, utterly for me, but somehow one of my slips entered her hand.

The fourteen-year-old crowd has by now parted in front of me, and I numbly move toward the tributes' platform.

How is it me? How did this happen? There's just no way. I'm not supposed to be a part of this. The two little sisters my mom was unable to give birth to weren't supposed to be a part of this, either. How is this happening?

My footsteps thud on the wooden steps, and I look dully out at the world in front of me. The world I would never know again.

Then Mim calls for volunteers.

I think my heart's started back up again. What was I so worried about? This is District 4! We train winners here! Of course no one like me would have to humiliate the district in the Hunger Games. Someone prepared is just about to throw herself in the ring, and I'll run back home free.

But nothing's happening. Why is nothing happening? Where is the female Career tribute from District 4?

My stomach twists horribly when I finally remember.

The mercury poisoning.

A few months ago, a sizeable batch of our freshwater fish was found to contain mercury poisoning. This, of course, wasn't realized until a hundred of the citizens had fallen ill and died. I thought I was unrealistically lucky; no one in my family had eaten any bad fish, and all of the tainted meat was stopped before it was sent to the Capitol, so our town wouldn't get a bed reputation, and we wouldn't lose our business.

But I'm not lucky now. I remember the report, the list of the people regarded as important who died. Trixus Halloway, the most outstanding female Career tribute, as well as the only one old enough to participate this year, was on that list.

And now there's no one left to save me.

I think I'm about to faint. My legs are absolutely locked in place, my pulse is racing, and I'm breathing so heavily I'm sure people as far as the Capitol can hear it. The Capitol… I try to stand up straight and tuck my arms behind my back composedly, so maybe I won't look weak to everyone watching the broadcast, but I'm sure they've already caught enough of my horrified expression to pick up the fact that I'm not exactly pleased about this.

"And the lucky boy!" Mim shrieks enthusiastically, dipping her claws deep into the boys' bowl. She pulls out a name and reads it gleefully. It takes a moment before I register what she's just said.

I'm about to completely break down now. I thought there was no way this could get worse. I thought me going off to my death was the absolute most horrifying thing that could possibly happen today.

But there is District 4's male tribute for the 13th Hunger Games making his way out of the crowd now. Iah Grayling steps onto the platform next to me. I stare, dismayed, at him, and he smiles back dully.

Why? Why is this happening? Why do not only I, but also my best friend have to die? There's no way this can be happening. This is impossible. Neither of us is eighteen, neither of us has ever had to sign up for tessarae. Neither of us deserves this.

How is this possi—

"I volunteer!"

I snap back to attention, and Iah turns to see who's just spoken.

"Thank you," I mutter with as small a sigh of relief I can manage.

I shouldn't have been this worried; after all, Trixus was the only Career to have been killed by the poison outbreak. There are plenty of boys to step in, and one so very thankfully has.

"Think you'll do a better job, eh?" Mim hums. "And your name?"

"Twig Antwerp," the boy announces just as he breaches the edge of the crowd.

I can very well see his name is the most inappropriate name for him you could ever come up with. He does not in any way seem thin or small or snappable; in fact, he doesn't even look like he's in the right age frame for the Hunger Games.

But after a quick confirmation with Mim, he's up on the platform next to me, waving big at the crowd. I think it might be a good idea to wave myself, to look friendly and excited, but in this condition, I'd probably just end up falling over.

The crowd is now cheering wildly for Twig; after all, _I'm_ certainly not going to be the one here to win the Games. Mim treats it as her own applause, bowing and curtsying and almost falling over in those ridiculous shoes of hers. She then walks up to us, and before I know what's going on, Twig and I are whisked away into the Justice Building.

I've never been inside before; it's quite nice, really, and the floor moldings aren't even water-stained. In fact, the floor itself is a nice shade of pale blue, and there's a large, darker blue couch made of soft-looking fabric in the middle of the room that I'm directed to sit on.

Now it's time for the goodbyes. I'm really going to say goodbye to all of these people now. I'm about to leave them all behind for nothing but the Capitol's sick amusement.

The door opens, and I turn to see my mother escorted inside by a Peacekeeper. She takes a seat next to me, and before anything else, we hug tightly.

Now I'm finally crying. This is really happening, isn't it? I'm really going to have to say goodbye to everyone. I'm really going to leave them all here.

Mom starts to loosen her embrace, and my arms drop. Sniffling, I turn to the other side of the couch, expecting to see Dad, but he's not there.

"Where's Dad?" I ask between sobs. "You can't… expect me to believe he's too… _sleepy_ to say goodbye to his… only daughter!" I'm almost screaming now.

Mom looks down sadly.

"Circe," she sighs softly, "you're father… is very sick. He has been for… almost two weeks now." I can only stare at her with disbelief as she continues. "I didn't want to tell you… I thought he was going to get better, but…" She trails off miserably.

Dad's been on death's door for two weeks? How did I not notice? How did I not realize? I guess there's no way I _could_ have known, since I never get to see him…

I look over at Mom, who's just staring at the carpet, afraid to see me as I take this all in. But I'm saying goodbye to her, forever. I can't leave her letting her think I'm upset, that I'll never forgive her for all of these lies. I may not, but it's pointless to let her know that.

"I still love you, Mom," I whisper, hugging her from the side.

"I love you, too, honey," she mumbles. "Ah!" She sits up and feels around her apron's pouch before pulling out a glimmering necklace. It's a silvery chain, with an ornate, silver koi fish surrounded by swirling waves as its centerpiece. I recognize it instantly.

"It's the one you always loved," she recollects quietly, her gaze on the fish. "I always thought I'd give it to you when you got married, but… I think you should have it now." She turns toward me, holding the shimmering thing up in the air. I duck down a bit, and she puts it around my neck. She only has time to kiss me on the forehead before the Peacekeeper comes again to escort her out. Still crying, I stare at the closed door until it swings open again.

"Thank you," a curt voice that could only belong to Laima calls as the door is shut again. I watch her blankly as she makes her way to the couch. She sits for a moment and looks at me. I self-consciously start to rub the tears out of my eyes, but she snatches my hands away from my face before I can manage it.

"What…?"

"Don't rub your eyes," she instructs strictly. "I'm sure there's no way you can keep from crying, but you may as well make sure you don't look like it. If you look weak to the cameras, you won't get any sponsors."

I nod slowly, letting her put my hands to my sides.

"Just wait until the very end and put your face against the couch or something. That shouldn't show as much." Laima sighs and starts to stand up. "You… were always so much better off than my family, even after Hurricane Duncan…"

Hurrican Duncan happened three years ago. It destroyed most of The Tip—which isn't a rare occurrence; The Tip alternates between being the richest and poorest part of District 4 with every hurricane—and it took Laima's mother. I hear she was trying to save the last of her family's goods for the season—it would be incredibly hard for them to live without those—but she couldn't get out in time.

I look at her expectantly as she, for some reason, heads for the door.

"Circe, I hate you, but you'd better not die!" The door slams as she leaves the room, and I'm left to just confusedly look after her.

I've almost managed to stop crying by the time the door opens again. Iah makes his way to the couch.

"Hey," he says.

"Hey." It's surprising how much my voice is cracking right now, even with just one word.

"Circe," he starts, "I'm so sorry."

"It's not your fault," I mumble. "You'd never want this to happen, so why do you need to apologize?"

"I… I should have stayed," he confesses. "Maybe… Maybe we could figure out a way to survive the Games if it were the two of us."

"No. I… I don't think you can stay when someone volunteers, anyway. And," I sigh, "even if that did work, we'd just have to kill each other by the time we reached the end. They wouldn't let two people win the Games, you know."

"You're right. As usual," he adds with a smile much smaller than his normal one.

"Of course I am," I mumble, ending our usual exchange.

He suddenly wraps his hands around mine. "Circe," he starts, sounding urgent all of a sudden but pausing to think before he continues, "I… I don't just want to say goodbye. I… I've never really been sure, and I'm not sure how to say this, but I… I love you. I'm still not sure, but I know at least love you… a little bit…" He starts to lower my hand. "I know it sounds stupid, but…"

"It's… it's okay, Iah. I… kind of love you, too." And before either of us is sure what's going on, we're kissing.

But it's not right. It's not romantic at all.

It's just a bitter goodbye.


	3. Nice Things

**A/N: **Hey, there, sneaky people. I'd be happy to hear anything you have to say about my story... It may have an impact in my writing, so it's worth your... couple of seconds to review. :)

I hear the click of the Peacekeeper opening the door, and I pull away. Iah only smiles at me sadly before he's escorted out the door.

Mim and the Careers, including Twig, have arrived, and I'm whisked away to a large car to go to the train station. The small station I know to be pretty far away, despite its tracks across the town, but coming in a car, we arrive quickly.

I step out of the car—Twig, for some odd reason, decided to hold the door open for me when he'd gotten out—and I'm instantly blinded by a camera flash.

No one in my family has ever had a camera—it's not exactly an everyday occurrence for someone in The Tip to take pictures—so I don't have the best understanding of how they work, but apparently, the sun behind clouds and the shade of the car are too dark for them to see. I think I've confirmed this when the sixth camera flashes at me.

Mim, Mill, Lily, and Ime have already somehow gotten through the crowd and are having their pictures taken at the boarding shack, while Twig and I are left to wade through the busybodies. I'm sure Twig could get them out of the way easily, but he's too busy flexing and showing off. I should probably do something, too, to appeal to the sponsors, but I'm still just blankly floating through all of this, and I have no ideas of what I could do to get their attention.

It takes a few minutes, but we do manage to catch up to the adults, and we're finally shoved onto the train, away from the cameras, and into a room that smells like sugar-coated pond lilies. The train door slides shut, there's a loud click, and then the train surges into motion, making me pitch backwards. Luckily, I manage to catch myself before I fall.

Mim excitedly—since she doesn't seem to have any other mood—ushers Twig and me up and down the train. The room we came in is the center car; the dining room, as well as other rooms tributes don't need access to, like the kitchen, are toward the front of the train, while a very long room with comfortable-looking couches that I don't get to try out yet and the bedrooms are further down.

Mim now announces it's time for a light lunch, and we're pulled back to the dining car, where the table has since been outfitted with oodles of silverware, oddly-folded pieces of cloth that must be napkins, a series of small plates, and the winners of the district. She seats herself at the head of the table, and a waiter is quick to swoop in and set her napkin in its place. Mim nods at me expectantly, and I seat myself to one side of the table. She approves, and the same dark-haired waiter unfolds my napkin and sets it in my lap. Twig has also sat down; he's set his elbows on the table, which is starting to take a significant tilt toward him.

Now that everyone is situated, six waiters in matching white suits bring out matching white bowls to everyone's place. I look analytically at the cloudy, white, first course for a moment, giving everyone else time to start before I do so myself.

If I've learned one thing about the Capitol today, it's that they know how to make food. All three of our "light" lunch courses are amazing. Of course, I'd be wowed by just the variety of ingredients, since I've only ever had the same few things every day at home. But the utter deliciousness of everything makes another point entirely. The creamy potato—I think; we don't eat potatoes that often—soup the size of my normal dinner with clams, the crunchy bread and gooey cheese and crisp lettuce and tender beef—none of which I've never actually had before—on the sandwich with its other condiments, some of which I can't even pronounce, the odd, frozen, gel-like dessert that tastes like nothing I've ever had before. It's all very unusual for my normally-limited palate.

But soon enough, lunch is over, and the table falls to conversation now that our mouths aren't full. Mim is reminiscing with the winners about their final victories. Mill's utter decimation with a lead pipe of a smaller boy from District 3. Lily's killing of the last two competitors from District 5 simultaneously with her knife throwing. Ime's furtive poisoning of the girl from District 7 two years ago.

Suddenly, Mim claps and announces it's about time for the first recapping of the reaping ceremonies. Our rooms, she says, have television sets, so we'll all be dismissed until supper at six-o-clock sharp.

I start to make my way through the train-length, narrow hallway to my room, noting the large door to the side that opens into a restroom. There's an overly-large screen on the wall that I assume must be my television, and I manage to get it turned on.

I watch the reaping ceremonies of the first three districts, noting with a grimace one particularly small girl from the District 3. It's horrible enough to make teenagers fight to the death, but it's outright wrong to throw in twelve-year-olds. Every year it happens, every year I root for them, but they're invariably overpowered by someone blessed with a few extra years. It's not even anything they could change.

Now District 4's ceremony is on, and I hear my name called. The camera pans to the crowd, and I step out almost immediately. It's odd; I figured I was probably making them wait a good minute or two before I started for the platform. And I don't look as terrified as I thought, either. Just numb.

But a few seconds after Iah's name is called, I look plenty horrified. Iah himself doesn't look it much, though; in fact, now that I think about it, I can't remember ever seeing him scared. Then Twig calls in his substitution, and once he's up on the stage flaunting, me still standing stiff and lifeless, the camera jumps to the next district.

My eyes are still on the television, but I'm not paying attention anymore.

I'm lucky nothing had sunk in when I was still onstage; I don't think I could say I came on as strong, but fifteen-year-old crybabies certainly don't get the most sponsors.

The clock embedded under the television says it's 3:30. I'm not sure what to do now. I suppose the most logical thing to do would be to continue watching the ceremonies, but I don't think they're really the best indication of the tributes' personalities. I've seen plenty of kids play timid in the reaping ceremonies that turn out to be psycho killers.

I look around the room. It's nice, but houses little more than the bed I'm lying on and a large, mirrored cabinet. Curious, I walk over and open one of the white but wooden drawers. The thing is stuffed to the brim with clothing. I allow myself a smile. Finally, I can get out of this accursed dress! I fumble through the garments, made of silk or chiffon or even velvet, in colors I've never gotten to wear before, in styles I've never even seen before!

I try on nearly everything I find before settling on a silky, maroon top with tight, darker maroon sleeves and a sagging collar of excess fabric, coupled with a pair of shiny, gray pants that flare out at the calf. And amazingly, they fit me, better than my own clothes do. Still bubbly, I kick off my ugly, old shoes and look through the drawers I've yet to open. There are two entire drawers filled with nothing _but_ shoes, so I start to go through them. In the end, I settle on a pair of black sandals with small heels that are kind of amusing just to walk around in.

There are two more drawers, so I go ahead and open them up. They're filled with glimmering jewelry, the kind I've only seen on the getups of District 1 tributes. I go ahead and shuffle through them, but I don't find anything that goes with the outfit I've made.

I close everything back up and look in the mirror, twirling around, despite the lack of a trailing skirt. Then I realize a silvery chain is disappearing under the maroon collar. I pull out the necklace gingerly and gaze at the koi.

It's been passed down through the family, the only thing, actually; most of the other artifacts have been destroyed by hurricanes one generation or another. Mom says she was wearing it the day she met Dad, so it's particularly special for her. I was always in love with it, though; I've been caught trying it on myself more than once.

But now what is it? It's certainly just as beautiful as the day I set eyes on it. But it's not just a necklace. It's home. The home I'll never see again. The home that's been torn from my fingers by the insatiable need for blood in the Capitol. The family, worn down and defeated by the cruel government.

And to think I was actually starting to enjoy myself here.

I frown, turning away from the mirror without bothering to put up the mess I've made of the jewelry. I don't mind giving people that work for the Capitol something else on their to-do list.

The clock now reads 5:00. I still have a whole hour before suppertime, but the recaps on the still-blaring television have cycled back to District 1, and I have no reason to sit through that again. I've already tried on all the clothes I could ever want to try on, and there's nothing else in my room but the bed.

Well, nothing else to do. I lay right on top of the covers, shoes still on, and try to doze off.

I nap off and on for another fifty minutes, snippets of nightmares from previous Games jumping out at me every time I nod off. I don't feel like sleeping any more now, and it's probably time to get going, anyway. I shuffle off the now-disheveled bedspread and head for the dining car.

By the time I get there, Mim is already buzzing around, asking someone with a tall, white hat about something. The last of the napkins is silently set upon the table as I approach.

"Ah! You're here!" Mim trills happily, flitting over to where I stand. "Dressed properly and everything!"

I agree, but there's no telling how perpetually-mismatched Mim considers a plain outfit like this as "proper".

"You can go ahead and take your seat," she informs me, gesturing to where I had sat a few hours ago, "but we'll have to wait for the others before—Oh!" She flies over to the doorway, where Ime has since appeared.

While Mim starts babbling at him, I shuffle over and seat myself. It's quite hard to sit properly in these pants. Which is probably why, besides it's sure-to-be-astronomical price tag, I don't have anything similar. My family isn't known to opt for anything with disputable practicality.

A few more minutes pass, and the traingoers gradually come together as 6:00 approaches, Twig showing up last of all.

The dishes start coming from there; a green soup with some sort of vegetable I've never heard of, a dish of colorful, saucy meats skewered by small sticks of wood, a salad—which I've never even heard of before now—with breaded bits of chicken meat, a plate of venison soaked in a lemon sauce atop a bed of rice, and lastly, some sort of chocolate cake, with powdered sugar on top and vanilla ice cream and melted chocolate inside.

Despite still being semi-full from lunch, I shove down at least a bite from each course and manage to finish the last of the dessert course. After all, I've never been one to turn down a good piece of chocolate, even when it means giving up my lunch.

But no one in the Capitol would ever have to give up lunch for this. They wouldn't even have to ride a train to their murder in the first place.

Speaking of which, I think the train is docked now. It doesn't feel like it's moving anymore; after all, District 4 isn't all that far from the Capitol in the first place. It would be a feasible trekking distance if the mountains weren't in the way. I imagine we'll be ushered out the second we finish breakfast tomorrow.

But right now, I can't imagine eating anything else. I'm stuffed to the brim, and Mim's still disappointed at how I peck at my food so subtly.

Now Mim tells Twig and me to go get a good night's sleep; after all, tomorrow's the day Twig and I will be outfitted by the Capitol's most amazing stylists!

I enter my room, and although it's only about 7:00, I'm already sleepy from all of the food I've gorged on.

I only halfheartedly shuffle through the shelves again before plucking the first nightgown I see from its place and putting it on. It's a sleeveless, light yellow, silky gown, and the skirt is long enough to bunch up at my toes.

I have to throw off about seventy pillows off the now-made before I can pull the covers back and climb in. I curl up drowsily and pull the covers back over me.

I wonder what Mom and Dad are doing now. Mom's surely still making our jerky. Poor woman would have to work all by herself now, I think bitterly.

And Dad… I have no idea what he could be doing. Lying around in bed, too sick to move? Or is he well enough to struggle to go to work, even though Mom insists he shouldn't be moving around?

But it doesn't really matter what they do. I'll still march off to my death and leave them behind.

I fall asleep on a tearstained pillow.


	4. Realize

**A/N**: A short chappy, but hopefully still decent. It's still a chapter or two before we get to the wonderful children-killing-each-other part, but have patience! And while you are waiting, how about a review? :3

"Good mooorning!" calls an overexcited voice I know must be Mim's. I open my eyes unhappily, and when my vision starts to clear, I can make out my door opened just a peep. "Get cleaned up and dressed up! We'll be off straight after breakfast!" she trills, shutting the door a little too hard.

I slide out of bed, wobbling on my feet all the way to the bathroom. This is the first time I've been in it, now, actually. There's a large line of sinks, I would think too many for one person, a toilet, and an enormous shower.

I've never had a shower before. I'm sure it would be quite nice if I could figure out what button turned the temperature down instead of squirting a new scent of foam all over me.

After about thirty minutes of scrubbing the piles of colored bubbles off me, I'm out of the shower and into a nice, light green top with no sleeves and a pair of light brown slacks with odd little bells on the belt. I slip the black sandals back on and slink out the door.

I pass through the middle car to the dining room. The table is completely empty, but a spread of breads and fruits and numerous other foods are laid out on a new, thinner table. I notice the stack of plates and utensils at one end and walk up to one of the servants, expecting him to tell me either what to do or that no one has shown up yet, but he doesn't say anything.

"Am I early or late?" I ask him politely. He only frowns at me, looking kind of bewildered.

"Late?" I ask, assuming the negativity meant he wasn't quite expecting me. He shakes his head.

"So I'm early, then?" I think he's about to shake his head again, but he nods. I frown at him, wondering if he has some sort of speech problem. But I decide to just go ahead and start serving myself—I would have been up hours ago at home, and my stomach knows it—and if he doesn't approve, he can stop me.

But he doesn't move at all as I pick up a plate and fill it with all kinds of fresh fruit—something I've only ever gotten on a few of my birthdays—as well as some toasted, but soft-looking, pieces of bread covered in powdered sugar and some sort of wonderful-smelling tree sap. I pick up a pre-poured glass of something that smells like it may contain chocolate and sit in my usual spot.

"Ah! Circe!" Mim shrieks happily as she enters the room. "You're all ready and raring to go already!"

I nod, though I don't understand what the big deal is. I would've woken up at about six at home, even on a Sunday like this.

"I think I'll get my breakfast now, too," she hums, strutting over to the serving table. "Aren't you just _so_ excited to meet your stylists today?"

"Um, yes," I lie. In fact, I'm not "just _so_ excited" at all. I've heard the whole ordeal is a good deal of pain. And after that, I have to ride a tributes' chariot next to a boy that's aiming to kill me. And I have to not look utterly terrified or the Capitol will be sure not to sponsor me. Not very exciting, if you ask me.

"Wonderful," Mim trills, setting her overfilled plate on the table with a loud clank. "They do such magnificent work, especially those two from last year! Oh, what were their names again?" she asks herself, sounding frustrated she can't remember who dressed up last year's future corpses. "I'm sure they both start with a T," she mutters under her breath, spinning some sort of yellowish noodle I don't recognize around a fork.

I've only eaten two wonderfully juicy strawberries before Twig and Lily walk into the room. Lily immediately goes off to make her plate, and Twig follows once he looks like he's sure what's going on.

They eventually seat themselves, Lily's plate half-empty and Twig's piled up about a foot—though I guess he's used to eating a lot, being a Career tribute and all.

I always thought it was strange that nearly all of the profits our district earned from a Hunger Games victory went toward training and feeding the next competitors. Then they'd bring in another flood of profits that would go toward yet another wave of Careers. It doesn't make any sense to me, and for all I know, anyone else. But I guess that's just the way we do things.

I can hear Ime and Mill laughing as they finally enter the room. They're loudly chatting it up about something—I don't bother to pay any attention since it's sure not to concern me—but start to settle down once they've both taken their places at the table.

"Now," Mim starts, stabbing a piece of sap-covered bread with her fork, "once we're all cleaned up from this, we'll head straight out to the preparation room. Mill, Lily, Ime, and I will lead you there, so you won't have to worry about where to go." She pauses to take another few bites of breakfast. "You let them do whatever they want, now; they know what they're doing, and you're sure to turn out beautifully." She looks at Twig and me expectantly. I nod a few quick times, and Twig grunts an okay.

We sit in silence—except for Twig's loud, messy eating—for a few moments. I look at the three winners. They're supposed to help us, tell us how to survive, but they haven't done a thing for us so far. Or, at least, for me.

I freeze in horror. They're not going to bother to help a worthless cause like myself, but they've probably already told Twig everything about surviving.

My fork clanks against my plate when I drop it. I think some of the people around the table are gazing at me now, but I don't care.

I'm not going to get any help at all, am I? If all the advice is going to Twig, then he's obviously the only one here the crew is going to support. But they control the pools of donations and what they go towards.

And whom they go to.

I think I'm shaking now, but I'm not paying much attention to the outside world at this point.

I'm going to die, and none of these people are going to even try to help me. It doesn't matter that I'm from District 4. They're saying Twig is going to win, and if he wins, everyone else in the arena must die.

Is this how they're going to kill me? Throw me to the hazards of the environment, or the tributes, and just ignore me, hoping their _fellow districtmate_ gets killed quickly so they won't have that pesky little grain of guilt to deal with?

"Circe? Circe!" Mim calls my name several times, but I don't respond.

Suddenly, I've shoved my meal and chair away, and I'm sprinting to the bed in my room.

I remember once, when I was only a few years old, before most of the worst hurricanes, when District 4 was the most amazing place you could ever hope to live. Dad had pulled some strings and managed to take me to his workplace for a day. I was, of course, overjoyed at the thought of exploring new places and being with Dad for a while longer than I usually was.

He took me on the old fishing boat in one of the lakes close to The Tip. I was a little bit scared, of course, but Dad was there, so I was never afraid for too long.

We ended up in a small storm. It hit so quickly we didn't have time to get out of the lake. It wasn't much, just some light rain and some heavier wind, but the boat was rocking severely, and I was scared to death. I was so sure I would fall right out of the boat, off into the lake, and never come back, but Dad was there, smiling, and nothing ever went wrong when he was smiling.

But he's not here to save me now. No one's going to save me. No one's even going to try to help. Sure, Mim seems like she cares, but everyone, even her, knows I'm not the hope of the district. Twig is. And all support, all advice, all supplies, all hope is headed for him.

As I wail into my oversized pillow, I can't help but wonder: Does anyone care about me anymore?


	5. Grand Parade

"If you don't get up yourself, I'll have to yank you right out of the bed," calls Twig. Sounds like he's inside my room. When I start to imagine him yanking me out of my bed, I make a move to dismount myself, soberly sliding off of the sheets.

"It's time to go get dressed up, Circe! I don't know what you're so worried about! It's going to be _so_ very fun for you!"

I guess Mim's in here, too. I turn around slowly, and, sure enough, the two of them are standing in the entryway, Twig inside the room and Mim sticking her head through the doorway.

"…Yeah…" I shuffle over to the door, and the two make room for me as Mim leads the way off of the train.

Want to know something that's certainly _not_ "_so_ very fun"? Getting every square inch of skin but your scalp waxed. And, of course, having to just sit there and pray the only thing that's coming off is hair, even though it _really_ doesn't feel like it. And having to go through the whole ordeal naked and surrounded by tattooed weirdoes. That's not "_so_ very fun".

The tattooed weirdoes—assistants of the main stylist whose names are Twilly and Tilly—now rub me down with a burning pink lotion whose kick eventually fades. Isn't it ironic that both of the purple-skinned, airheaded sisters' names rhyme with "silly"? I think it's quite amusing, even as I sit here shaking and a bit upset about being seen without any clothes on.

"I think you're finally ready!" purrs Twilly.

"Yes, I think Tora will be able to stand seeing you now!" The two burst out laughing for some reason, and as they go off to fetch Tora, I slip on the thin, red robe I've only been allowed to wear for a few minutes of this whole hour-or-so-long ordeal.

The door opens, and a woman who must be Tora steps into the room. She's very tall, and though not chubby, she's not skinny, either. Her long hair is an odd combination of red and purple stripes, and her skin is a ghostly white. She has some makeup to accent her cheekbones and eyes, but otherwise, isn't too made up. She walks up to me silently and motions at my robe. I try not to show my objection in my face as I slip it back off, disgruntled.

After circling me slowly, with the occasional silent request for me to move my arms or head, Tora motions at the puddle of a robe in the floor, and I put it back on gratefully. She walks me over to a chair surrounded by mirrors and shelves, and I seat myself. Eerily silent as ever, she puts a hand on my hair and redoes my part repeatedly until she's satisfied with it. She walks away, toward a door, and opens it, nodding at me to follow.

We're now in a small room only big enough for the long table and several couches inside it. Tora pushes a button on the table, and a tray of food comes up, plates and all. She sets up her own plate and begins to eat, looking up at me to ensure I'm getting something in my stomach as well.

I've gotten hungry by now—after all, I didn't eat much of my breakfast, for reasons I'd rather not think about right now—so I put together a meal of small, flaky, heart-shaped rolls with a slab of chicken in some sort of lavender sauce.

"Do you talk?" I find myself asking, as quietly as I'd thought it, but out loud.

Tora shakes her head softly.

I'm about to ask her why, but I stop myself. She wouldn't be able to answer me. Duh.

But I can't help but wonder. Does she have some sort of medical problem? Or is it some sort of odd ritual? It must be hers alone, with Twilly and Tilly so chatty.

In any case, I'm off to get dressed up for the parade. I'm not sure exactly what her ideas were, since she's unable to tell me, but as my costume progresses, I realize she's more focused on the water than the fish. My dress is a lovely, sparkling shade of blue-green, with ribbons and pleats of different shades of both blue and green. The neck is a sharply-angled V-neck, and the sleeves are only loose, silky fabric that fall off my arms midway to my elbow. The skirt of the dress is very uneven, some parts steering as sharply up as the V-neck steers down, but most sections are long enough to cover up my feet that remain bare. Tora walks out of the area for a moment in which I admire the costume in the mirrored part of the room. Despite these conditions, I still enjoy wearing such nice things.

Tora walks back in now, and she carefully slips the necklace I had been missing so sorely back over my head. I can't help but slip my hands back over its familiar contours as Tora flits about, checking every dimension of my dress to make sure it's unquestionably perfect.

She puts layers of makeup on me now, nothing as bizarre as most of the faces I've seen in the Capitol, but actually just enough to make me look pretty and to make my naturally green eyes seem blue.

I must be finished now, because Twilly and Tilly have arrived to worship Tora's work. And Twig has arrived as well. He has no top on whatsoever, probably to showcase his obvious advantage in the arena, but he has pants on that seem to be made of glittering fish scales as well as shoes that have been painted to look like the water's surface. He grins at me, leaving me a bit confused as we're both whisked off to the bottom level of the Remake Center, where our chariot, led by dappled white-and-gray horses, is already waiting for us. We both step up on it, and Tora, as well as a short, white-and-orange-haired man who must have been Twig's stylist, arrange our positions and costumes until they're completely satisfied.

I jump at the opening music when it starts to blare, forcing Tora to rearrange my skirt, as the huge doors to the street open.

The District 1 tributes, dressed in skimpy, shimmering costumes and glitter powder, are led off toward the circle first, and it's only a few more seconds before the float containing Twig and me takes off after them.

We're a few feet into the open air before I realize how huge this crowd really is. They're everywhere, screaming names and encouragement and just screaming. I give a start when a rose lands right at my toes, but I reach down to pick it up, and, for lack of any real ideas, smile and faintly wave back in the direction of whoever threw it.

Soon enough, though, the flowers start to pile up, and I'm waving around the whole crowd, though still not as much as Twig, who I'm sure is about to just up and break-dance for everyone out here in the Capitol. It's so odd how I'm smiling at these people, treating them like friends, when all they want for me is an entertaining death.

But in the off-chance Twig is eliminated before me—yeah, that's realistic—these people will be my source of… income, I guess is the word. They'd be my only hope, considering the only things in the arena I could get my hands on are plants—that would probably be poisonous, and I'd never know—and probably some animals—which I'm not sure I'd be able to kill. All of the decent weaponry would be inside the Cornucopia, and I wouldn't survive for a split second in that massacre. And even if I did get a weapon, I'm sure it would just be a waste in my incompetent hands; the only things I've ever cut had already been dead and frozen before I ever to them.

So I smile for the Capitol, the only people who could possibly save me from the death they themselves have planned for me.

Now the float pulls into the City Circle and stops, but I have to keep smiling with my aching cheeks and waving with my weary arm because some of the richest Capitol-goers stock the buildings we have just arrived by. It's a minute or two before the tributes from District 12 have pulled up, and then the music gives a final flourish and dies.

Now President Wimble, a short, thin, blonde, pale-skinned man, gives us the usual speech from up in his balcony, which is right above District 12's float. I find myself tuning out; I've heard this ramble on television every year, and it never changes. So instead of listening to the president, I focus on one of the gigantic screens cycling through images of the tributes. It's just now showing District 3's tributes, who honest-to-goodness look like they've been transformed into cyborgs, and then it cuts to Twig and me.

I'm really quite stunned at how my entire costume played out so wonderfully. The dress itself is magical enough, sending a shimmering wave of artificial sunlight through its length every time I move, but its collar brings attention to my magnificent necklace—which, I suppose, must by now be considered by district token—which blends in perfectly as the centerpiece of the only lightly-patterned fabric. There are also glittering, blue strands spun into my hair that I never noticed; Tora must have put them in when she was organizing my part.

It all makes me look quite attractive.

I wonder if Iah is watching. Well, of course he's watching, dimwit, I nag, everyone is. But what is he thinking? Does he care at all how beautiful I look here, today, or does he even care what I look like? Is he still trying to decide if he loves me? Maybe he's trying to ignore me, trying to start letting go, so he won't be as depressed when I'm killed in the arena.

I don't feel like he's the kind to do that.

But am I? My death will separate us both ways, so I suppose I should start trying to forget him. Try to wind down whatever feeble love for each other we had, so I'm not hysterical when I know I'm dying—if I'm unfortunate enough to have a deathbed.

I exhale and look back at the glowing screen, which stands out in the approaching dusk, for my image.

But now the camera has shot off to the next district, and I'm left to simply wait. Wait until the president finishes and the anthem plays before the horses lead us in a final loop around the City Circle and into the Training Center.

The doors slam shut at the very end of the anthem, and I finally release my unnaturally-long-held smile from my face for a more neutral, less painful expression.

Twilly and Tilly are going crazy over how well the costume worked, and how wonderful I looked with that shy, cute, little smile, and back to how utterly amazing Tora's work always is.

We're done with all of the parading now, so I'm dressed back in my normal clothes. Or, at least, what I was wearing immediately before having to be stripped down naked.

The only thing that stays on me is my little necklace, my little reminder of home.

The home, I think forlornly as I'm herded to the tributes' tower, that I'll never see again.


	6. Introductions

**A/N:** Here comes the shining moment for the reviewers! It's time to start playing favorites, because your ideas and opinions are going to hugely influence the Games! And, I believe there's a bit of a name game at play here... Let's see how many people can catch all of it. ;)

At Mim's insistence, I push the little button with a 4 on it, sending the elevator flying upward faster than any District 4 car I've ridden in. The sudden surge combined with the clearly visible height makes my stomach a bit uneasy. I've always had a fear of heights, though it's never stopped me from much in a district where no building or tree reaches very high. I hope this is the highest I'll have to get in the next week or so; I'll be at a huge disadvantage in the arena if it's nothing but forest, with no stable or safe ground to land on, like it was a few years ago. Of course, I'm at a huge disadvantage, anyway, so I don't think even that would be much of a problem.

We walk out onto our floor. From here, I can only see our current room: a large, square one lined with couches and finely-crafted tables and beautiful paintings of comforting things I won't see in the arena. I'm soon shown the door to my room, though, and I walk inside.

It's even bigger than the main room. It's four times the size of the jerky factory plus the oven room, and everything is a shiny plush. There are buttons on every part of the wall and good chunks of everything else, and after playing with them for a few minutes, I've managed to dim the lights and play some weird techno music, but I don't know how to change either back, so I just head to the bathroom.

Being sweaty from the solid thirty minutes of posing and running around and waving, I decide to take a shower. Luckily, it's much easier to figure out the temperature than the train's version.

I'm all dried off after figuring out the neat Capitol drying technology, and I dress myself in a white-and-gray, striped top with loose long sleeves and a pair of very light, denim capris with little, pink hearts on the back pockets. I slip on some silvery shoes without laces and get going.

Just as I'm about to step out the door, some sort of intercom overshadows the techno music. It's Mim calling me—and everyone else, it sounds like—to dinner. I wander about the floor's large room for a minute before locating the open door to the dining room.

I seat myself in the normal spot, although each chair here has more space than on the train, and a servant immediately unfolds the napkin at my place and lays it across my lap. Another servant with bright yellow hair holds out a platter with wine, but I tell her no thanks. I've heard more than one story of that stuff messing things up for people.

The servant with the wine has only just backed up from my space when the rest of the crew storms in. They all take their seats, quieter than usual, and they're catered to like I was, most of them accepting the wine.

The courses start to come now: a pale yellow soup with chicken, a red sauce surrounded by more shrimp than I've ever seen in my whole district—I guess they must have all bent packed up and sent here—followed by a thin piece of meat I don't recognize that's drowned in orange-pink sauce. Then comes a very warm bowl of stew with plums and lamb, and the meal is finished with a yellow, iced cake aside a well-arranged selection of fruits.

During the meal, most of the discussion rests on the magnificent food, but there is the occasional word about the Games. Ime and Twig are already joking about it like old friends, and Mill is soon to join in. Lily, though still hostilely silent most of the time, does pitch in a word or two when conversation turns to her or anything about knives.

But they're not saying anything helpful. I guess they must've told Twig everything he needs to know, and why give one of his opponents any sort of advantage?

Soon enough, we've finished the meal, and Mim tells Twig and me to go get some rest, because tomorrow's going to be just _so_ very exciting!

I shuffle off to my bedroom, and, after trying on ten sleep gowns, settle on a pink-and-brown one. I shove the many layers of sheets aside as I climb into the bed, which is even softer than the one on the train. Vaguely being thankful a servant had come in to reset the room to "lights off", I find myself drifting off into dreamland.

And what a dreamland it is. I find myself in my float dress, standing on an endless stretch of white plain. But I'm suddenly surrounded by invisible walls, and I'm shooting up, higher and higher, until I'm frozen with fear from the bizarre altitude.

Then the walls disappear. I'm flung down into the air, but my dress blossoms out to lessen my fall. It doesn't stay that way for long, though; it turns into a raging sea, engulfing me, and I'm kicking, but I only sink, screaming, but no one is there to hear me, and then I'm drowning, being sucked down into the black depths…

I jerk awake to find that I've been clinging to the sheets for dear life. But there's sunlight coming in through the windows, and I'm covered in bedspreads, not water.

I yawn and roll out of the bed, placing my bare feet on the plush carpet. It takes a while for the shower to wake me up, but before I know it, I'm all dried off and dressed up, in a purple outfit with no sleeves or long pant legs that had been laid out for me, and I trot off to breakfast.

For the first time, I'm not the first here. Tora and Twig's stylist, who I know from last night's conversation is named Tyge, have seated themselves. I've already piled up some warm food on my plate before I realize Tora is sitting next to my space today. I think back—Ime had been sitting there yesterday—but I don't think this is significant. She won't talk to me, anyway.

So I take my seat, just as Lily walks in, and begin eating.

I definitely know there's something wrong with Tora now. The whole time she's eating, she swishes her head around—I almost think she's having a seizure, but the movement is too regular—and she tilts her head far back every time she swallows. But I have no idea what's making her do this, so I shouldn't judge. She's plenty competent at what she needs to be, and I'm grateful for that.

Everyone's taken a seat now, and conversation has started about the Training Center and its huge gymnasium. Mostly about how Twig is going to go about it. Of course. Since he's a Career tribute, everyone's already intimidated by him and expecting a fighter, so there's no reason not to show them exactly how good he is.

In that case, I should just sneak around looking evil and do absolutely nothing, because I'm sure they expect no better from the sniveling, skinny girl that just happens to be from District 4. But for some reason, that just doesn't sound like a good strategy.

Now that we're all finished with breakfast, Ime tells us—yes, he actually looks at me as well as Twig—to meet at the elevator at ten. From there, we'll descend into the training pit.

I saunter over to my room to see that it's already 9:30. So, I have thirty minutes to fool around with the buttons lining my room, I think, turning the lights halfway on before toying with the rest of the interfaces.

By the end of the thirty minutes, I've figured out how to view distant spots of the Capitol through the technologically-advanced window—yes, really—order food through nothing but a few button pushes—though I'm still full and don't end up eating anything—and change the music that thumps around my room. But my playtime is up, and it's time to go meet the other tributes.

I meet Mim and Twig at the elevator, squeezing my eyes shut the whole time we go down to try not to get sick, and it's only a moment before we're walking back out.

The room is huge. That's the first thing I pick up about it. It's filled with all sorts of oversized-cubicle-like stations, ranging from knife-throwing to animal skinning to tree climbing. It looks like most of the tributes have arrived; when I look at the people crowded near the center, I see tags on their backs that have every district number but 4 and 11. I feel a tiny prick in my back, and I turn to see a silent servant has pinned a large 4 to my shirt.

The elevator whirs again behind me. The two tributes from 11 must have arrived, because I've no sooner turned to the circle of tributes before an athletic, redheaded man named Neoptolem introduces us to the rules.

Once he's done, he starts to list the stations, but I'm already looking around at the other tributes. After all, I didn't get a very good picture of them at the reaping ceremonies, and I was too worried about smiling and waving at the Capitol to pay attention to them at the parade, so now's the first time I get a good look at them.

Both 16-year-old tributes from District 1, Kyta and Bilt, are Careers; it's easy to tell.

Those from District 2 are Rim, a 16-year-old boy with an impressive stature, and Alypso, a 15-year-old who's very pretty but doesn't look like much of a fighter.

District 3 has the very small 12-year-old girl, Kalis, as well as the 18-year-old Phemus, a sturdier competitor with a bitter eye—his other is covered by an eye patch.

From District 5 is a 17-year-old boy named Odyss, who must be almost seven feet tall but isn't as muscular as the Careers, and a 13-year-old, heavyset girl named Nuray.

District 6's tributes are a short but muscular 15-year-old boy named Glaucus, and Pich, an ordinary-looking 16-year-old.

From District 7 are two more tributes that look like Careers, though I doubt they truly are, coming from the lumberyards, named Valer and Tierra.

There's a 14-year-old girl named Esen, who's pale as a ghost, and an 18-year-old named Euriloc, who's just as white, from District 8, and from 9 are Ione, a 17-year-old girl with thin, brown hair, and Sunil, a 12-year-old boy who just seems very lost.

District 10 gives us Chara, a 15-year-old girl with some sort of knee problem, and Zeef, a very bulky 16-year-old boy.

From 11 are Oakley, a 15-year-old girl that's all angles and bones, and 16-year-old Maddox, who isn't much thicker.

Lastly, District 12 has Randa, a 14-year-old girl whose face looks 20, and Shaw, an 17-year-old boy who's quite muscular but seems like he hasn't slept in months.

Neoptolem dismisses us, and the Careers, including Twig, who shoves me to the side, rush to the weightlifting and brute-strength-based areas immediately. I wander around for a little while, eventually deciding on the archery section, since only one other tribute is there.

For the next two hours, I determine that my archery is only dangerous to things fifteen feet away from my target, how to make a simple lean-to, among other shelters, which of the similar plants on the edible plants station's list are poisonous or safe to eat, and that I'm actually quite good at scaling trees as long as I only look up.

And now, to add to the discomfort of being around the people who are going to kill us, all the tributes are made to eat lunch in the same room. It's set up in the same format as the breakfasts have been; I end up assembling a series of small patches of different foods on my plate before turning to see the tables. The Careers, as well as the two from District 7, are all sitting next to each other, joking around. Everyone else is sitting by himself or herself, save for a few who sit with their districtmates.

Before I'm sure exactly what I'm doing, I set my plate just a foot or so from Oakley and sit down. She ignores me. Or doesn't notice me at all. I don't try to rouse conversation, and we both eat in silence before it's time to get back to work.

In the course of the next few hours, I find out that my knife-throwing is just as horrible as my archery, that I'd be decent at disguising myself if I wasn't too nervous to stand still—which I'm _sure_ I won't be in the arena—that I wouldn't be bad at hand-to-hand combat if I had any muscle on me, and that I'm actually pretty good with spears and javelins. Of course, all of those goodies will be in the Cornucopia, and I'm not going near that graveyard when the Games begin.

The whole time after lunch, the Gamemakers have been watching us. I admit, it makes me a bit nervous, but they're only here to give us a score, which will determine our sponsors' gambles. Which I won't receive, anyway.

And now I'm shot back to District 4's floor in the elevator with Twig as well as Mim, who had gotten the elevator down to the training floor for us in the first place.

When we start dinner, all questions go to Twig—of course—who brags about the insane amount of weight he lifted, and how he almost made some younger girl faint at one of the stands that I'm not interested enough in to keep listening. Instead, I scarf down my meal—the continuous activity today has made me more hungry than a day of flitting about the jerky factory would—and try to think about some sort of way I could survive.

I'm not winning on strength, and probably not on speed, either. I've never been in any part of nature other than the lake that scared me half to death, so I'm not going to be the survival expert. All that's left is hiding and strategy. I guess they'll have to do.

So, how would I go about on that platform for the next two days? I suppose it would be a good idea to observe the other tributes tomorrow instead of wasting time at combat techniques I'm no good at. _Sounds good_, I decide, finishing off the last bit of chocolate icing on my dessert before dismissing myself to my room for bedtime.

I clothe myself in a dark red sleep gown before climbing back under the covers.

What a day. I've gotten so much done: figured out how I'm going to attempt a win in my still-hopeless situation, gotten a few skills in that may come in handy, gotten a better look at the other tributes. Hard to believe it's only been two days since the reaping.

Two days. I sit up. Two days after the reaping.

My birthday.

At home, we'd be celebrating with a piece of chocolate, maybe even with some of the good bread they sell near the town square. Dad probably would've pulled some strings to get a few extra hours off , and Mom would've worked extra hard the hours I wouldn't have been at the factory so the whole family could have a nice, long dinner.

I'd rather be home, so much. All of the nice things in the Capitol aren't worth it at all. But there's no changing it now.

"Happy Birthday, Circe," I whisper to myself as I close my eyes.


	7. Observation

**A/N:** Here is the next chappy! And please, review! Not only is it _my _bread and butter, I need to know which tributes you like! Only a few have their fates carved in stone, and the survival of rest is completely up to you! Anyone ready to play favorites?

It's the second day at the Training Center. After last evening's revelation, I've decided to learn some survival skills in the first two hours, then switch to observing the other tributes after lunch.

So, filled with a breakfast of oddly-cooked ham and pancakes, I'm off to hit the survival stands. I learn animal skinning, which is probably easier here than in the arena since these "animals" are just synthetic dummies, how to make convincing bird calls, and some new swimming techniques.

It's lunchtime now, and I find myself sitting next to Oakley, and today, her districtmate, once again. She still takes no notice of me when I sit down, and I wonder what she must be thinking.

It wouldn't surprise me if she were remembering the fire.

It was only a month ago when a wheat field in District 11 was somehow ignited. But the citizens were unable to put out the savage flame, and it destroyed nearly a third of their crops before it finally burned out. It's no wonder she's so skinny; I doubt there's a single family in her district that can feed itself right now.

"What do you want?" I jump, not expecting to hear her gravelly voice.

"Wh-what?" I stutter back automatically.

"Why do you keep sitting by me?" She turns to stare at me with those hollow, green eyes of hers.

"I… I want to make an alliance," I blurt out before I know exactly what my voice is doing.

"You pity me," she replies, turning to her lunch.

"No, I don't… pity you," I reply. In fact, I probably do pity her, but now that I think about it, I'm not much better off than her here. She may get some donations for herself, while I'll have absolutely no assistance from my mentors.

"Then why do you want an alliance with me?" she asks wearily.

"Well, because… I mean… The only reason anyone would want an alliance, I guess. Two heads are better than one and all," I babble. "Um, right?"

Oakley nods slowly as she eats more of her meal.

"Maddox?" she asks, turning to the boy next to her.

"I don't mind," he says, his voice surprisingly low.

"All right," Oakley responds with a monotone, turning back to me. "We'll let you join the alliance. But if you screw up once, you're gone."

I nod rapidly. "Understood. Thank you so—"

"Lunch over!" Neoptolem calls loudly. I look around the rest of the cafeteria—the Careers are already long gone—and put my plate up.

"We'll go around the stands and show our strengths," Oakley, right behind me, whispers.

"Right," I whisper back. She nods at me expectantly, and I lead the three of us to the open gymnasium.

Well, so far my only real battle strength is with the spears and javelins, so I practice that for a bit, trying to ignore the quiet comments Oakley makes to her districtmate. When I'm done, I slowly back up and let Oakley take the lead.

She starts with slingshot practice, nailing every target and dummy, and then moves on to knife-throwing; she has excellent aim, but can't throw them that far.

Maddox is very good at hand-to-hand combat; had he been in a district whose main livelihood had not been shattered, I'm sure he'd be strong enough to take down a Career. Then he backs up. We all look at each other for a moment before unanimously dispersing to different stations we've yet to try.

But instead of tackling the next survival station, knot-tying, I shadow one of the other competitors—the boy from District 6, Glaucus.

He can shoot a staggeringly accurate arrow, but he completely fails at climbing trees. I make a mental note of this before deciding to shadow someone else for a few stations.

In the next few hours, I've managed to find a few weaknesses of most of the competitors: the tributes from District 1 can't disguise themselves to save their lives—so no espionage for them, though I wouldn't have expected it from Careers, anyway—the girl from District 2, Alypso, has absolutely no accuracy skills, and her districtmate can't tell poison ivy from a daffodil.

District 3's Kalis is quite fast, but can hardly lift ten pounds, and Phemus can't aim for anything more than two feet away—it must have something to do with his depth perception.

Twig hasn't shown any weaknesses yet, but I decide to go ahead and shadow someone else after three stands; I'd like to get a little on everyone today.

District 5's Odyss isn't good at anything that requires particularly dexterous work rather than strength, and Nuray has to be the slowest runner I've ever seen.

Pich, from District 6, has no sense of balance and can't climb more than one foot up a tree.

Neither tribute from District 7 has any skill with knife-throwing, but Valer is a decent archer.

Both pale tributes from the next district have no skill in hand-to-hand combat, and they're not very good at swinging around weapons, either.

Ione, from District 9, has some sort of twitching problem; anything that takes longer than five seconds is largely impossible for her, and her 12-year-old districtmate hasn't shown anything impressive thus far.

Chara is good at using most weapons, but when her knees decide to freak out, she's left immobilized on the ground, while the boy from District 10, Zeef, has a very slow reaction time.

The girl from District 12, Randa, is no good at close-range combat, and Shaw does well at everything but always seems like he's about to keel over.

By the time I've observed all of this, I've spent all but half an hour of the remaining time. I could go back and check on Twig, but he's at the weightlifting station, and I don't think he's going to move, so I head off for some of the less popular areas.

I didn't allot myself enough time, though, and I've only learned half of the knots by the time we're called back to the District 4 floor.

The next day I watch the other tributes again, trying to pick up their greatest strengths. I decide to participate in some of the stands myself; I'm sure a few of them caught on to me yesterday, and there's nothing wrong with getting a little extra practice for myself.

Both Kyta and Bilt, from District 1, work well with smaller blades—I don't have enough strength myself to carry out most of those moves—but I'm sure with their muscles, heavier weapons won't be a problem.

Alypso can handle anything she doesn't have to throw or shoot, and Rim's probably the best here are hand-to-hand combat.

Kalis has very good aim at throwing knifes, and the other from District 3, Phemus, looks like he can lift even more weight than Twig.

Twig, meanwhile, seems to have only ever hit the stands he's an expert at: anything requiring brute strength, as well as a good chunk of the survival skills. I hope he's not trying to hide any skills as I make a note of the stands he hasn't gone to.

District 5's Odyss seems like he's good with every weapon, except the small ones or the bow and arrow, while Nuray doesn't seem to have any strengths at all.

Glaucus still hasn't shown any other skills other than arrow-shooting, and his districtmate Pich can only work with daggers.

Valer can shoot a decent arrow, but he's most skilled at ax-throwing, and Tierra's good with any sort of warfare involving knives.

District 8's tributes, Esen and Euriloc, are both very good at multi-step things, and they're both decent at thrown weapons.

Ione is very quick, and she can scale a tree in half the time it takes me. Sunil just wanders around, and has yet to show any strengths.

Chara can work with any weapon with equal skill, and the other from District 10 is good at boxing; he's too slow and gets hit a lot, but it doesn't seem to affect him at all.

Randa can throw a javelin just as well as I did yesterday, while Shaw is a quick learner of all of the skills offered.

I vaguely wonder if I should attempt to make more alliances, but three people is definitely enough. We're obviously not going to out-power the Careers. And if we're hiding, the more is not going to be the merrier.

Now it's lunchtime. I sit next to Oakley once again, but the awkwardness has disappeared now that we're allies.

"Where will we meet?" she starts immediately, the words so quiet I can barely make them out.

A meeting place. I hadn't put much thought into it; after all, who knows what kind of playing field we'll be on? I could say to meet in the tallest tree, but the arena may be a treeless length of grass or sand. I could say to meet at the deepest body of water, but there may be none.

But two things are the same in every Hunger Games: the Cornucopia and the standardized circle of tribute stands. We couldn't meet at the Cornucopia for sure; we'd get killed thrice over. And we can't stay at our circles, without anything to defend ourselves. But, if we split up for a while…

"The middle," I reply in a whisper. I think she understands that I mean the Cornucopia, in the middle of the tributes' circle, because her eyebrows rise significantly. "But after a few hours." Her expression calms down a bit, and she relays the message to Maddox. He nods at her, then me, so I know that we've settled on this.

We eat the rest of the meal in relative silence, only commenting on the food occasionally. For a minute, I think she's coming up with some sort of code, but there doesn't really seem to be anything behind her airy comments on the ham.

Now I look around to see that all of the tributes from Districts 1, 2, and 3 have disappeared. I remember with a nervous gulp that today's the day of our private sessions with the Gamemakers.

I haven't put enough thought into this. I couldn't blow their minds with anything here; my spear-throwing isn't bad at all, but they're expecting much greater things from District 4.

I watch tensely as Twig is summoned to the separate gymnasium, and Oakley looks at me with a slight, ironic smile. I try to smile back a bit, but the corners of my lips are etched too far down on my face to attempt that, so I just turn to stare at the double doors.

So, I have a few minutes to figure out how to impress them. I have use of the entire gym, and I need to show them something nothing else can do.

Well, I may be smarter than a few of the other tributes, but I don't think there are any Sudoku or cryptograms for me to solve in there.

I'd have to do something original, something no one's ever thought of doing.

"Circe Heron," calls a bored voice. I blink, and a man with short, black hair has appeared in front of the doors. I get up nervously and pad over.

Once I go through the gym's door, all of the Gamemakers' eyes are on me. I curtsy for some reason, too nervous to think straight, and, with no better ideas, trot off to the javelin station.

The dummy there gets a point through its heart from a few feet away, and I look at the Gamemakers for approval. Some are nodding, some are looking at me with bored expressions, and some are too busy drinking to care.

But none of them look ready to dismiss me, so I look around the room. I scale the tallest tree replica, but all of them seem uninterested now. Without thinking, I tear off one of the straightest pointed branches and send it flying at the nearest target, managing to hit it one ring away from the bulls-eye. Some of them seem entertained by that, but the rest are now focusing on the large turkey that's been served to them.

Good. Nothing wrong with my lack of skills being ignored.

I shrug it off, jumping off the tree and just practicing throwing my beloved weapons until they dismiss me. I nod thankfully, and I'm ushered back to my floor.

It's still going to be a few hours before the rest of the sessions are finished, so I'm left to wander about my room, gorging myself on the various types of chocolate I can order with the push of a button.

At dinner, the only topic of the night is Twig's just _amazing_ performance at his session, how he stunned the Gamemakers with this strength and ability, and blah blah blah. I stop listening somewhere between the third and fourth courses.

The instant I'm done, I head for my room to change clothes—it's still thirty minutes before we'll meet in the sitting room to watch the scores, and I'm not going to hang around and listen to them ramble on about Twig anymore.

Just as I've decided on a loose, blue-violet top, there's a knock on my door. I quickly put the mismatching green pants I had been wearing back on and dash over to answer.

To my surprise, it's Ime. "Mind if I come in?" he asks.

"S-sure," I reply confusedly, stepping aside to let him in my room. He takes a seat on one of the plush couches.

"It's Circe, right?"

I nod as I sit on top of my bed. It's kind of sad how my own mentor isn't even sure about my name. I guess that's what happens when none of them want to waste their time helping me. But, if he doesn't care, why is he here?

"Well, Circe," he starts, leaning back, "I'm sure you've realized we're backing Twig more than you."

I nod. That became obvious the second day on the train.

"I just want you to know that we don't care which one of you wins. We'd be just as happy with your victory as we would Twig's. We just think he has a better shot at it than you, is all." He clicks his tongue. "So don't give up just because you don't see anything under a silver parachute headed for you, all right?"

I look at him blankly, but my head decides to go ahead and nod.

"All right, then. Just wanted to make sure you knew," he says, getting out of the chair. "Everyone's starting to gather in the other room to watch the scores, so come whenever you can." He walks out of the door, leaving me to shuffle through the pants that might match this shirt as I think.

Everything he said makes sense. He's just kind of ignoring the dangerously low odds of me winning without any sponsors. No one's ever managed to win like that before, and I don't think it'll happen now.

I slap on a pair of dark blue jeans before I head out to the sitting room.

Two of the short couches are occupied by Mim and Lily, and Ime and Mill. Twig's sitting alone on the last couch, but I take my seat in a chair far away from him.

The scores are just starting now, and the boy from District 1's face and name flash on the screen. An 8 materializes beneath the picture, and then his districtmate appears.

I take notice of few of the scores before me; all of the Careers, even Alypso, score high on the 1-to-12 ranking system, and to my surprise, little Kalis scores an 8—could she have done such with just her knife-throwing? I wouldn't think so, so she must have some other strengths she hasn't shown us. Then Twig appears, and his 11 triggers a whooping about the boys here so loud I have to plug my ears when my picture finally appears.

I score a 6. Personally, I'm not sure how I managed to score that high with just two skills. But I'm not going to get anything from sponsors, anyway, so it doesn't matter.

I only take note of the particularly high and particularly low scores now: Odyss scores an 8, which is especially scary when he's not even a Career. Nuray scores a 3. I think she'll get killed in the bloodbath. Both tributes from District 7 score 8's. Sunil scores a 2. Poor kid. He really shouldn't be here. Chara scores a 3—her knees must have gone out on her—but Zeef scores an 8. Oakley and Maddox both get 5's—odd how the Gamemakers saw me as the strong one in this alliance—and the last significant score is Shaw's, a whopping 9.

Everyone's up congratulating Twig now, and it's easy for me to slink away into my bedroom.

I get dressed in another nightgown, a lavender one today, and slip into my bed.

Tomorrow are the interviews. I wonder how I'll do?

But it's too late at night, and I'm fast asleep before I can think about tomorrow any more.


	8. Arrival

**A/N:** YATTA! Are we all excited for the Games next chapter!? I hope so! And if you have any more comments on your favorite/least favorite tributes, post 'em! Or if you just have a comment, post it! Now, let's get started!

I wake up on my own, taking a shower with some experimental scented foam before I dry off and dress up in an all-white outfit.

I'm actually the last to arrive at breakfast today, and once I'm seated, everyone is discussing approaches to the interviews. There's already been a rough schedule worked out for Twig with Ime and Mill, and Mim is quick to claim me to train, though I don't think Lily was jumping all over the opportunity herself. Mim's just excited District 4 finally has a "proper lady" instead of a rude, muscular one. She doesn't seem to realize that Lily is glaring daggers at her as she continues her meal.

And once I'm finished, Mim whips me off to my room to start working with me. She first puts me in unearthly-high heels and teaches me how to walk in them. It hurts my feet to death, but it's kind of fun otherwise. Then I'm taught proper etiquette when walking around in a long gown; I insist on tripping over it instead of lifting it up, but she solves that problem soon enough.

We go through various other things, like the proper posture and to keep smiling no matter how many knives go through my cheeks.

Then we break for a lunch of pearl-sized tomatoes with salad and a juicy piece of steak. It doesn't seem to last long, because I'm soon off to the sitting room, where Mim gazes at me with a look in her eye that makes her seem like she may actually be thinking. I just start to open my mouth to ask her what she's doing when she makes her first comment.

"I'm not sure exactly what angle would be a good one for you," she sighs, somehow still managing to sound excited about it as she scrutinizes me further.

"A-angle?" I ask, drawing away when she walks closer to me.

"Yes, what you're going to be for the audience," she trills like everyone knows what an angle is. She looks at me a little more, tapping my chin to move my head with one of her too-long fingernails.

"Maybe a shy, humble sort of thing?"

Okay, I may be many things, but I'm not shy, and I'm not humble. Just ask Iah. He's seen me be a wacko at the few sports games our school has—let's just say, if I were a boy, I'd be one of those fans with a giant letter painted on my stomach—as well as what I'm sure was a solid hour of bragging after I got the highest grade on the big math test.

But, I guess not jumping around on the float, next to Twig of all people, did make me look kind of shy. I'm a decent actor, so I could probably pull it off.

"It's decided, then!" Mim exclaims, the hint of uncertainness from her last sentence completely gone. "We'll try that! So, I'll be the interviewer, and you answer me. Remember, you're the shy little girl who just can't believe she's been given the honor of all of this!"

I nod, registering the fact that she thinks 16-year-olds are comparable to little girls, and we begin the mock interview. She asks me simple questions that are easy to answer, and she's absolutely thrilled that I'm so excellent at this.

Before I know it, the day has gone, and the minute I'm ready the next day, I'm placed in Tora's care.

Fortunately, I'm allowed to wear some normal clothes to this session as she scrutinizes me. Twilly and Tilly come in with something blue wrapped in plastic in their arms, and Tora lifts my sleeve up. I frown for a second and disrobe, but it's luckily not long before the newest garb is thrown over me.

Once I have it pulled down to its proper place, I sneak a look in the mirror. It's a much lighter, brighter blue than the parade outfit, and the entirety of the fabric seems to be swirling around me.

Now Tora has come back, and is putting on my makeup. It feels like much more than in the parade, but my eyes are closed too often to see for sure.

She continues to work on my outfit, carefully adding details to both the dress and my exposed arms. She also wraps something in my hair and tops it off with a light hat I can't see that well.

She seems to be finished, and finally lets me see myself in the mirror.

The dress is beautiful, dotted with tiny jewels on every curved wrinkle, and it sends waves of light every time I shift a leg. Swirling, wave-like patterns have been stenciled onto my arms, and extremely light blue ribbons adorn my hair. I'm topped off with a simple, white newsboy hat that's slightly too big for my head, but it's tilted back so I can see.

My makeup, though, makes me almost unrecognizable. I've always thought I was pretty, but I look like a model now. If you look closely, you can also see a bluish tint to some of the lines, a feature that goes well with the clothing.

I notice Tora leaning over next to me, and when she stands, I look to see a pair of dark blue heels that aren't anywhere near as tall as the ones Mim made me wear yesterday. I step in, and Tora motions for me to turn. Twilly and Tilly immediately start spluttering praise, and Tora nods approvingly.

Now Tora leads the way to the elevator, where I meet up with Mim and the others from my district. Twig is actually wearing a shirt today, but it's tight enough to still show his muscles. Otherwise, he's dressed impeccably.

Now we're ushered into a line with the other tributes just beside the large outdoor stage, and we seat ourselves in an orderly arc.

I almost collapse onto the chair, I've been shaking so badly. Hopefully no one will notice; after all, their attention should be on the girl from District 1, who's already up for her interview.

I don't pay much attention to her myself; she obviously going for the "vicious" angle, and I have to admit, I'm kind of intimidated myself. So, instead, I focus more on Halen Crask, the blonde interviewer who's always jumping around the stage just as much as he's interviewing the tributes. It's annoying to watch most of the time, but I'm so jittery I almost find his antics funny.

And then the buzzer for Phemus, who's been convincingly playing the sullen-and-hostile angle, rings, and I'm called to the interview. I'm grateful my dress hangs past my knocking knees as I try not to stumble on my way over. Halen reaches a hand out, and I shake it slightly, remembering I'm supposed to be shy and modest.

"So, Circe," he starts, just as overenthusiastic as everyone here seems to be, "what's it like being in the Capitol for you?"

"Oh, I…" I smile and try to blush a little to hide that I have no idea what to say. "I like it a lot. It's a… very nice place and all." I swallow before I decide to add a little more. "I never would have imagined ending up here."

"I wouldn't imagine so," Halen responds happily. "How about the clothes? I imagine you've been thinking your dresses have been spectacular just as much as I have."

"Oh, yes," I reply easily. This is something I kind of know how to talk about. "Tora's a magnificent stylist, isn't she?" I model a bit in my dress to show off her work.

"She is. So, how about your training score? What went through your mind when you saw that six?"

"Um, I…" I try to think of something convincing, but the best thing for this act is the truth. "I was kind of surprised. I mean, I knew I did well, but… I-I didn't know I would score a six. I was just… kind of hoping for at least a four." I smile shyly to end it.

"Well, good job, and I'm sure we all wish you the best of luck, Circe Heron, tribute from District 4."

I nod quickly and shuffle back to my seat. Hopefully, I pulled that off well. No way of telling for sure since I won't get benefits from anyone willing to sponsor me.

I sit quietly through the rest of the interviews, and once Shaw from District 12 is finished, we all stand for the anthem and then disperse.

I'm left to wander around my room for a while, not wanting to take off Tora's lovely dress and outfit, but having to if I want to join the others for dinner.

The main topic is, of course, not me, but Twig, and his beautifully-executed confidence vibe. How content but deadly he seemed. How he seems he could just reach over grinning and snap your neck. Like a twig.

I tune out as usual, picking at my food.

It's so easy to get caught up in the festivities. Forget you're about to be sent to your death for the entertainment of the Capitol. But it's really going to happen. I'm going to be shipped off, and for all I know, the person sitting right next to me laughing today is going to be the one to kill me tomorrow.

I'm quick to block out the thoughts of my death and redirect my attention to the food. It's still just as wonderful as ever, but I can't help but be reminded that I'm going to have nothing at all to eat soon.

I end up leaving early to climb into my bed; the interviews were much later than the near-midday light in the City Circle implied.

It's still hard to accept that I'm about to be sent to my death…

_No_, I think, trying to shake the thought out of my head. I don't have to die. I could figure out a way to win… Maybe…

My eyes close, and I drift off to sleep.

I see no one in the morning, save for Tora, who dresses me in a plain, black shift—my arena outfit will be set up elsewhere—and leads me to the roof.

A hovercraft appears out of nowhere, making me flinch a bit, but I recover in time for a ladder to come down. I start to climb up it, but on the first rung, I'm frozen. I panic for a moment before realizing this must be a precaution; last year, a tribute from District 6 had tried to fling himself off the ladder to his death. He failed, but I guess they don't want something like that happening again.

Now the ladder has brought me to the hovercraft, but a lady with bright red hair informs me she's giving me a tracker. I would wince if I could move as she pricks my upper arm and squeezes the syringe.

Now the current that had been holding me in place vanishes, and I rotate my joints, wanting to be sure I can still move after that. Tora follows me onto the hovercraft, and a silent servant directs us to a room of breakfast.

I must have eaten less than I thought at dinner last night, because I'm shoving down rolls and bacon like there's no tomorrow. Which may be true.

I continue to gorge myself on the bread until I'm sure I'm about to vomit, and then the table is cleared, and I'm left to stare at the window that's just been blackened.

The hovercraft lands much earlier than I want it to, and Tora and I dismount the vehicle via the ladder. But instead of a rooftop, we're inside an underground tube, and, after some quick instruction, we're inside the Launch Room.

I have to go through a shower and teeth-cleaning slowly so my oversized breakfast doesn't make a reappearance, and I don't even attempt to clean the back of my tongue. Tora rearranges my part a few times in wait for the clothes, but it takes so long she eventually starts a series of thin, short braids positioned opposite my center part.

And the clothes are finally here. A simple, tan tank top, with darker brown pants and black boots that squeeze my calves uncomfortably at their highest points. I click on the rigid, brown belt and look over the outfit.

Generally, tributes receive an outfit that corresponds to the arena. This is sending a mixed message, though: either it's hot above waist level and chilly beneath, or the Gamemakers want to see how we'll adapt.

Tora hands me my necklace, and I'm quick to put it on. It slips right over the imprint it made on my skin; I never took it off last night.

"And now we wait?" I whisper to Tora. She nods.

I try to seat myself, but I'm freaking out too much to stay that way for long, and I find myself pacing the floor rapidly.

"It's time to prepare for launch," finally calls a pleasant female voice lacking the odd Capitol accent.

I start for my metal circle shaking. Once I'm on, I look back at Tora nervously, wishing she could say something to help me. But she still can't speak. She instead smiles and gives me a double-thumbs-up. I try to smile back, but the cylinder lowering itself around me is disconcerting. Tora stands up stiffly, and it's a moment before I realize she's telling me to quit slouching. I stand up straight, managing a small smile at her before I'm whisked upward by the disc.

When I hit the surface, I'm blinded—after about fifteen seconds of complete darkness, sunlight is too much to take in.

But I do hear the announcer, Core Brig. "Ladies and Gentlemen, let the Thirteenth Hunger Games begin!"


	9. Just Getting Started

**A/N:** Whoa. This one took an unexpected twist. And you see the amazing power of reviews! Okay, so it just amounted to a random paragraph here, but don't worry! Please comment on any tributes you want--well, preferably the ones we think are alive--or just comment!

I now have one minute to examine the field. The Cornucopia is right at the center, as always, but between it and the tributes is a grove of relatively short bamboo-weeds.

It's one of the failed muttations of the Capitol. It was originally designed to be hollow like bamboo, and contain some sort of poison from the weed. They had thrown a few in District 4, and they popped up everywhere before the Capitol found its errors. It ended up just being a very odd sort of bamboo; a two-year-old could split it with a sideways hit, but you could pile a hundred-pound catfish as well as the two-hundred-pound man who caught it on top without the bamboo-weed breaking.

They're normally quite tall, but the bamboo-weeds around me are of various heights. They're on their standard ground—a marshy mud with a foot or so of dirty water above it.

Further outside the circle of tributes is a concentric circle of massive clusters of mangroves, most of their roots as high as their lowest branches. Further off in one direction is a wide cliff, and I can't see enough to make out what's in the other directions.

Aware of the ticking clock, I turn my attention back to the Cornucopia and its immediate surroundings. I can see a javelin, shiny purple and pointed to perfection. Just for me.

But I know I couldn't possibly get in and out of there without getting killed, so I look at the items closer to me. About a foot away from my circle is a large, black shade that would be useful against this beating sun.

But dangerously close to the Cornucopia, atop a few bamboo-weeds of the same height, is a six-pack of water bottles wrapped in plastic. In this arena, clean water's not going to be easy to find; everything is some shade of brownish gray, and starting a fire here to boil it will attract too much attention. It's so close to the Cornucopia, and it's surrounded by tributes on all sides. I _am _a good runner, but how could I…?

_Boom_! Just as I'm starting to get a strategy, I hear the explosion. Someone has tried to step off his plate early. I look at the remains and realize the boy standing in that spot was Sunil.

He knew he was going to die. He just wanted to choose how.

And then, the gong sounds, and I'm sprinting through the shallow water toward the bottles. I pass the sun shade and a jacket I certainly won't need in this weather, as well as a large canvas bag that I don't slow down to pick up. I snatch the water bottles and jump up on top of its former holders, then up and up on a winding, wobbling staircase of bamboo-weeds until I'm up on top of the Cornucopia.

I take only a second to catch my breath and analyze the scene: the mouth is in chaos, and if I wait any longer, I'm sure to get impaled. So I turn to the other side, flying off the tail of the golden horn, landing with one foot on someone's head, and tumbling over into the muck. I struggle up quick as I can, already darting off before I let myself cough up the muddy, gritty mixture.

I keep running over roots for a few more minutes, and by then I'm exhausted. I look around wildly, but it doesn't seem that anyone has bothered to follow me. I'm still far from safe, though, so I go ahead and climb up into a tangle of branches before settling down and spitting out the last of the mud.

I cling to the water bottles gratefully. I made it out with them, somehow; either my strategy was so utterly stunning no one dared to approach me—yeah, right—or I just got off lucky.

Well, I only got a 6 in training, so I'm not going to be at the top of their threat list now. Maybe they'll just let me live a while as part of their own strategy.

As long as I'm alive, anything works for me.

I think I sit there for a good hour, choking down the breakfast rolls that seem determined to find their way back out of my throat, before I hear a root snap. I flinch, drawing my legs close to me and clutching my water bottles to my chest.

It's hard to see through the mess of branches and leaves, but it looks like Phemus is making his way through the arena alone. He's not being quiet about it, either: I hadn't noticed, since Odyss was indisputably the tallest, but Phemus is quite tall himself. It's a bad impairment when you have to navigate through a tight tangle of wood. And the curses coming from him show his knowledge of that.

It looks like he must have gotten in and out of the Cornucopia: he's got a long slash down his back, and a large ax in one hand.

I hold my breath—even a near-silent puff of air may disclose my location—but he's swearing and stomping and slashing around so noisily I don't think he'd hear me if I screamed bloody murder up here.

I do manage to go unnoticed, and I settle back into a relatively comfortable crook in the branches for a while longer.

It's somewhere past noon now, I think; the sun's glaring so much I can hardly stand to glance at it. I wonder if everyone's gone from the Cornucopia already. I've since heard nine cannons fire in a row—one for Sunil, and eight more gone—so the killing is obviously over. Hopefully no one is trying to make a camp there…

I shift my position, pointing my feet toward where the Cornucopia should be. I don't have the world's best sense of direction, but the mangroves are thinner in that direction, and they sure didn't seem to thin out further away from the Cornucopia when I was there.

I take a deep breath and start to slip out of the tree, branch by branch, and I've climbed down two sets of roots before I'm on a manageable ground level. It's hard maneuvering when my hands are occupied, but there's no chance I'm leaving this water behind.

The mangroves thin out one by one, and I can soon see the Cornucopia in the distance. It doesn't look like anyone's there, but the bamboo-weeds are decent vision-blockers. I go ahead and slink in a little further, but there's still no sign of anything living, so I continue a bit more quickly.

I pass one of the metal circles now, and I can tell now that no one is here. The area's been predictably sucked dry of goodies, and I find an unobstructed path to the Cornucopia easily.

I can smell the blood in the water. See it splotched over the mouth of the Cornucopia as I approach. I try not to think about how the patterns could have formed. I really don't want to.

With a final check to make sure no one is around, I slink inside of the empty Cornucopia. Neither Oakley nor Maddox has arrived. They shouldn't have run into trouble; neither would have been stupid enough to get involved in the bloodbath, and there haven't been any other deaths since then. They're just taking a while to get here, I guess. Making sure they don't run into trouble. Makes sense.

I sit for a few minutes before I start to get weary of the constant watch. And the large blind spot the Cornucopia makes isn't helping. I slink out of the horn carefully, but no one is there to see me.

The wind's picked up now; the bamboo-weeds are swaying to the zephyrs as they come, and a new surge of panic rushes over me every time a few of my curls fly in front of my eyes.

A large, black blur zooms through my visual field, making me duck behind the Cornucopia. But when I dare to look, it's just the sun shade, now wedged in a taller patch of bamboo-weeds. I guess no one imagined it would be of any use when some patches of trees are so dense even the midday light doesn't pierce them.

I walk up to it tentatively once I've determined that it's not some sort of trap, thrown by a disguised tribute as a piece of bait to lure me in. I've laid hands on it, and still, no one arrives, so I pick it up experimentally. It's extremely lightweight, but I don't think I'll have any more use for it than any other tribute, and I don't want to be lugging anything unnecessary around, no matter how light. I'm still not sure; I may find use for it, but it doesn't even fold, so I leave it be and slink back toward the Cornucopia.

I duck under it just enough to keep in the shade and out of the wind for a while, and then I hear a distinct _snap_. I flinch, and, realizing the Cornucopia would only trap me, dart out into the open air, opposite where I heard the bamboo-weed's breaking. I just peep my eyes over the horn, and to my relief, it's Oakley.

I stand up straighter, showing myself but not wanting to risk any sort of show. She's seen me, and picks up the pace a bit as she sloshes through the water.

"Good to see you alive," she comments, putting her back against the Cornucopia.

"You, too," I reply quietly, taking another glance around the circle of bamboo-weeds. "Do you know where Maddox is?"

"Dead." She doesn't look at me as I rush over to her side of the Cornucopia.

"D-Dead?" I stutter. "Already? But how…?"

Oakley grimaces, putting her hands on the very small, bright yellow canvas bag over her waist. "We agreed to go for either the closest or second-closest item to each of our plates. This was second… But there were two loaves of rye bread one circle closer on his row…" She trails off.

I can fill in the blanks myself.

"Is that what you were headed for?" she asks suddenly, changing the topic with a finger pointed at the water bottles in my hands.

I nod. "It was kind of reckless, but I guess I must have been quick enough." It's hard to talk about my mad dash without saying something to insult Maddox.

"Well, one way or another, we've got it now." She looks up at the cloudless sky for a moment. "Let's find somewhere easier to hide."

"Good idea." I let her lead the way into the tangles of branches, and we hike for a good half an hour before we allow ourselves rest.

I tentatively dig into my six-pack of water, taking out one bottle and sharing small sips with Oakley. We've drained it halfway through when I hear a loud _bang!_

I hurriedly scale a tree and look around wildly. Oakley is still just standing there, screwing the lid back on the bottle.

"What—"

"That was just a cannon, by the way," she tells me with a sly smile.

"Oh. Uh, I knew that…" I reply sheepishly, climbing back down slowly.

Oakley chuckles and leans back against a trunk. I look up at the sky, trying to figure out the placement of the sun above the leaves and branches. I think the light is dimming, so it must be close to evening.

My stomach, finally finished with digesting breakfast, rumbles. I look at Oakley's pack. She follows my gaze.

"Don't get your hopes up. There's little to nothing in here," she says, shuffling through the bag. "There are two slices of sandwich, though, if you'd like to eat now."

I feel guilty about eating her food, but I've let her have some of my water, and this is an alliance… I nod hungrily, and she hands me one of the diagonal halves.

I'm careful to just nibble on it, even though it has thin slices of that wonderful meat called beef, as well as some whitish sort of cheese. I end up halfway through before I decide I need to ration this. I cover it back up with the clear wrap it was in before and give it back to Oakley, who has since eaten a third of the other half. I guess, even after a while at the Capitol, she's not used to eating much.

She packs up the sandwiches and informs me another thing in the bag is a thin length of rope.

Suddenly, there's a loud crash, and I shoot up the tree again, Oakley following me this time. We silently watch as none other than Chara struggles out of a broken interweaving of branches.

I'm actually surprised she made it past the initial bloodbath—her knees must have held out until just now.

There's a muffled shuffling next to me, and I watch, wide-eyed, as Oakley pulls out a throwing knife.

She wouldn't go after such a helpless target, would she? If she's that kind of person, I'm not so sure about this alliance of ours…

But, logically speaking, this is a good kill. It _would_ be better for her not to die by the hands of someone who might torture her.

Right?

I don't watch any longer, but I hear the cannon.

"Let's make room for the hovercraft," Oakley whispers. "You go on ahead; I need to get the knife back."

I don't hesitate to get out of the tree, but once I'm down, I wonder if I want to keep running. If I break the alliance, she's sure to come after me without mercy. But I'm going to be haunted by her presence, day in and day out, if I keep it.

I swallow, my remaining water bottles clenched tightly in my arms, sure I'm making the worst decision of my life as I pelt away from Chara's corpse.


	10. Good Witch or Bad Witch?

**A/N:** Hm. I had some plotlines laid out for her, but the last chapter changed a few things. It's quite amusing when the author is just as unsure of the next happening as the readers... Anywho, remember to review, and tell me your opinions on the tributes! You may be the only thing standing between life and death for them... *evil laughter*

The sun is teetering on the horizon by the time I've stopped running. Since I wasn't a marathon runner in the first place, the sprinting combined with the lack of food has left me exhausted. Hesitantly, I decide to break into another water bottle, draining it halfway before I reluctantly stop.

I screw the lid back on as dark blue shadows engulf the trees around me. What am I going to do for the night? I certainly can't just sit against the trunk and hope no one finds me.

What have I done? I should've kept the alliance, at least for one night! Now there's no one to watch my back when my body decides to go to sleep. I've never, ever been able to keep myself up late before, and I don't think any amount of adrenaline is going to change that.

Well, whatever I do, I need to do it fast.

I put the water bottle back in the colored plastic covering and look around. There's nothing beyond the trees to offer me cover here, and now is _not_ the time to go exploring. I go ahead and scale a tree, but I can't find anything that would provide a sufficient cradle for either me or the water bottles. I know how to fix that, but it would involve some vines or rope—neither of which I have—and I'd have to snap some branches, something I'm not sure I could do without being caught.

So, I climb over into the next tree, which is a mildly terrifying thing to do although the branches are plenty thick enough for me, and find a good spot for my water. After another minute of searching, I've found a sufficient frame for myself, and I settle into it.

And suddenly there's a loud, blaring anthem, and I've just about jumped to the next level of branches before I realize it's not a threat to me. It's just the death toll.

But from here, I can't see the Capitol's seal, so I have to maneuver myself into a cramped niche before the anthem ends.

And now the faces labeled only with numbers appear.

To my surprise, the first face to appear is the boy from District 1. The bloodbath must have been more chaotic than usual if one of the Careers was taken out.

Next is Nuray, from District 5—no surprise there—and then both tributes from District 6. The boy from District 7, Valer, is gone, and so are Esen from District 8 and both tributes from Districts 9 and 10. The last face before the seal reappears is the girl from District 12.

I analyze this for a moment before it dawns on me. Maddox wasn't up there. But Oakley told me he was dead…

Now I'm glad I broke the "alliance". If I didn't, I'm sure Oakley would have somehow distracted me at a predetermined place, while the Maddox I thought was dead came closer. Even if I caught sight of him, I'd be too shocked by his "resurrection" to act quickly enough, and…

I break off the thought. Whatever could have happened, didn't. I don't need to worry about anything but what's going to happen next.

I've only just climbed back into my nook before I fall asleep.

I'm awakened by a loud splintering, almost tumbling out of my little bed before I remember I'm trying to lay low. I creep over to a gap in the branches and barely peep my head out, but I can't see anyone in the faded dawn light. I crawl back to my nook shaking and recover my water bottles. If I have to take flight, I can't leave these behind.

I stay put for a while, sipping a bit of liquid to eliminate the dry patch in my mouth, but there's no other sound. Careful to remain silent, I slip out of the branches and onto the mesh of roots. There's still no one in sight, but I'm scared to move outside of this particularly dense tangle of wood, so I sit and stare down at the murky water.

There isn't enough light to properly make it out, but I swear I just saw a fish darting through the water beneath my feet. I've never had the chance to try and catch a fish, but I'm sure I could figure it out. I probably don't need a fishing pole—I don't have any sort of string to work with, anyway—but that means I'll have to try and catch them with my hands.

That's not rare for some of my districtmates, particularly the ones who go noodling—or, at least, I _think_ that's what they called it—for catfish a few miles outside The Tip.

There's not enough room here to swipe a hand through the water, though, so I'm going to have to move if I want to find something to eat. I take another wary look around the mess of wood, but with no traces of people and my stomach's urging, I'm off to find some thinned-out tree groves.

I've trekked for about half an hour before I start to believe these trees aren't going to thin out. Did I go the wrong way? Am I just headed into deeper and deeper patches of trees, until I find myself trapped, unable to fight when someone comes my way?

No. I can't think like that. I just have to logic my way out of things here.

I scale one of the trees again, though it's so cramped it takes me a while, to find that I haven't gotten any closer or further from the Cornucopia. Somewhere, I just got sidetracked into circling the thing.

I breathe a quiet sigh of relief as I start to climb down, and I've soon corrected my course back toward the Cornucopia's thinner copses.

"Think you're going somewhere?"

I stifle a scream, fully aware I couldn't escape quickly in this mess, as I fearfully turn to face the speaker.

It's Tierra, from District 7, looking down at me with a showy grin.

"Hm. You're not even going to try to escape?" she continues with a scoff. "I was hoping for something more interesting, but I guess a plain old kill is perfectly fine."

She seems talkative, but how could I use that to my advantage here?

"You… You plan to kill me with your bare hands?" I stall, noting the lack of any weapons in her hands, or any odd wrinkles in her clothing that could reveal a hidden weapon. I swear a see a flash of fear in her eyes, but it vanishes so quickly I'm not sure if it was real.

"You think I couldn't?" she counters, stepping closer.

I have to settle down a little—which is difficult for me—to remember watching her in the training sessions.

Knives. That's what she's good at. Anything short-distance involving knives.

But she's already admitted to being unarmed, unless she's trying to trick me into getting my guard down. If that were her strategy, she wouldn't be playing the intimidation game.

I try to think of how her hand-to-hand is, or boxing, but I never saw her at those stations. Was it because she wasn't very good at them?

I don't know, but if she's out to kill me, I shouldn't take chances.

"Did you ever see my hand-to-hand combat training?" I start, praying she didn't as I make my voice sound much more menacing than I feel.

"No," she replies bluntly. "But I'm pretty sure I have the edge here, you scrawny little runt," she ends with a scoff.

Now, I may not be the tallest person, and I may not have much meat on my bones, but I don't think most people would refer to me as a "scrawny little runt". Of course, Tierra's about twice my size, so I guess she has license to do that.

"If you have such an edge, why haven't you attacked?" I venture carefully. "Do you just enjoy… playing with your prey?"

Tierra narrows her eyes. "Maybe I do."

"Seems kind of sadistic to me."

She's yet to make a move, and it's becoming increasingly obvious that she's bluffing. But she could definitely knock me out easier than me her, so it wouldn't be smart to attack.

She steps forward threateningly, but I hold my ground.

"Allies?"I suggest quizzically.

"Why would I ally with you?" she hisses immediately.

"Because your old buddy," I start, remembering how she stuck with Valer on nearly every training day, "is already dead. Because you're not going to be any match for the Careers without a knife." Her eyes flare open at this, but she's quick to resume her hostile expression. "Because there's, quite honestly, nothing to lose from it."

She doesn't respond, and I'm sure she's about to reject the offer and knock me out, dump me here until she finds something she can finish me off with, but the aggression is fading from her face.

"How do you know these things?" she asks quietly, leaning against a tree trunk in resignation.

"I got some information on all of the tributes, back in the Training Center," I reply, trying to sound as useful to her as possible. "Tried to, um, build a strategy, you know?"

"Yeah?"Tierra responds. "So, what can they do?"

"Um, the ones left," I start to myself, trying to remember who all survived yesterday. "Well, as for the ones that aren't Careers, there's, uh, Kalis, right?" Tierra nods with a hint of impatience, and my words start to quicken. "Well, she's an expert at knife-throwing, and she's fast, but she can't lift much weight at all. But she's also hiding something because she got an eight, and I'm sure she couldn't do that with just knife-throwing…" I blather. I'm about to start with the next tribute I can remember, but I stop myself. No use telling her everything now; she may decide the info is all she needs from me and kill me in my sleep.

I wouldn't like that.

Tierra nods. "And?"

"Well," I start slowly, "I'll fill you in on whomever we run into when we do. No use standing around talking, right?"

Tierra frowns, but she at least trusts me enough to nod.

"Have you had anything to eat yet?" I start.

"Not today," she replies with a huff. "You're already trying to trick me out of my food?"

"What? Oh, no, I was just going over to try and find some fish…" I try not to pause or stutter, or she may think I'm making this up.

"There're fish here?" she responds, surprised. "But," she continues, regaining her composure, "I suppose you'd know, being from District 4 and all. Can you catch anything?"

"Um, I don't know," I reply honestly. "But I know how to prepare them…" That's not a lie, either, but we're not going to be cranking up a furnace out here to make jerky, so my knowledge is pretty well useless.

" 'Kay… So, I'll eat _my_ food, and you get to eat any fish you catch." She looks at my cargo. "We'll split the water."

"O…Okay," I respond slowly, realizing I'm not going to be able to tilt this alliance in my favor easily. "What food do you have, anyway? Did you get it from the Cornucopia?"

"You're not getting it," she reminds me, "but it's a substantial chunk of cheese." She looks up into one of the trees, and I can make out a harsh yellow speck between high branches; that must be her stash. "And I didn't get to the Cornucopia," she sighs. "I was just going to go around and get as much food as possible—I got the cheese, and then there was a dried square of meat that I ended up eating yesterday—and… Valer was going to get in and out of the Cornucopia with some weapons for us. Needless to say, our plan didn't quite work out…" She starts to thump her fingers against the tree trunk behind her.

I start to tell her "I'm so sorry", but I don't think she's the type that would appreciate sympathy.

"Well! Shall we go find some fish?" I say, deciding to change the topic instead.

"Sure." Tierra stands up and heads for the tree. I'm about to offer to fetch it myself—I can fit through the narrow gaps much more easily than she—but I'm sure she'd assume I was trying to steal her cheese.

This is going to be one tricky alliance.


	11. Gone Fishing

**A/N: **Okay, I published another chapter for you guys... Will you review for me? *puppy dog eyes* No one said anything the last chapter, and that makes me feel like I'm doing something wrong... X.x;; Even if I am, at least tell me! Cybercookies for anyone who reviews, okay?

In The Tip, there are about four jobs. You can catch fish, you can prepare fish, you can package fish, or you can do some odd jobs. My dad was in the first category, while Mom and I were inexplicably in the second. Chania's family was in the third, while Iah was in the fourth. Anyone whose parents do one thing are pretty well destined to do the same. I had a choice: go out fishing with Dad, or make jerky with Mom.

Now I'm starting to regret my decision.

Not only do I have no idea what I'm doing, I'm too slow to flip one of the few fish—they all seem to be snooks—out of the murky water whenever I happen to figure out one is there, and the few times I have managed to get one into the air, I've slapped and cuffed and missed them all, even trying to bite one mid-air when I got desperate enough.

"You really suck at this, don't you?" Tierra comments, nibbling on her cheese.

"What can I say? All the fish I've been in contact with were already dead," I mutter, flicking my hands to get some of the muddy water off. I stare wistfully at Tierra's cheese, but she ignores me. I stifle a sigh, turning back to squint at the brown water.

"So, what information do you have on that Euriloc guy?" she converses, finished with her cheese for now.

"He's only good at long-range attacks," I reply, lowering my voice.

"Let's move," she announces suddenly, yanking my arm and pulling me behind her as she runs into the denser trees.

"Was he—"

"Duh. This way."

I have to follow; she's not going to let go. But I'm getting the sinking feeling this alliance is going to be no different than the first. Is she another hunter? Someone who doesn't care for human life, as long as hers is safe?

"Stay." I obey her, not knowing what else I could do.

If I hear a cannon fire, I'm definitely running.

I cringe at the sound of impact on flesh—Tierra must be beating him; he's scrawnier than me, so he stands less of a chance.

I'm about to run. The cannon's going to fire any second now, and—

"There's that," Tierra finishes, suddenly behind me.

"What exactly… did you do?" I ask, trying to look through the tangles of roots and branches to locate Euriloc.

"Knocked him out. Bony kid like that won't bother us for another couple of hours."

"You didn't kill him?" The words come out before I realize I'm not just thinking it.

Tierra gives me a funny look, and I'm sure it's about time to start running, but she doesn't do anything.

"Kill him?" she scoffs. "If I were out to just kill everyone, you'd be _long_ dead by now, Circe."

I nod rapidly, and we start moving back toward the thinned-out tree groves.

That's right. If she was going to kill the skinny ones, she wouldn't have bothered making alliances with them, right? She doesn't seem like a bad person. She was relying on intimidation alone when she ran into me. Though she was intending to score some weapons with her first alliance, I'm starting to believe she wouldn't have been on the offensive there, either.

Maybe this is going to work out well after all.

A sudden cannon boom rips through the air, and I'm about to scale another tree before I remember it's not an attack.

Someone died. I can't help but look over at Tierra, who notices the cannon but moves on immediately. She shouldn't have accidentally killed Euriloc, right? He was a good bit skinnier than me, but still not as malnourished as Oakley and Maddox were.

The thought of them makes me shudder. I'd really rather not think about those two if I can help it.

To my surprise, there's another boom. Either the Careers have already turned on each other—something I don't think is likely—or they've attacked two people at the same time. That would mean the now-dead people had probably been in an alliance… Maybe, just maybe it was the two from District 11.

But I shouldn't hope for that. If I let myself believe they're gone, it'll just be me letting my guard down, and I can't afford to do that here.

"Circe?" Tierra starts quietly. "Climb up one of the trees and see if you can pick out any of the hovercraft."

I nod, and, after almost twisting my ankle on a flimsy root, scale the nearest tree. I look out amongst the treetops for a minute, but any hovercrafts are either already gone or out of sight.

"Well? See anything?" Tierra calls.

"Nope," I reply, starting back down the tree.

"Crap," she sighs. "Let's just hope the Careers aren't near."

"Agreed."

Tierra takes the lead as we take the last couple of steps to our fishing spot. Or sad-attempts-at-fishing spot, as the case may be. I exhale, positioning myself over the widest gap in roots and staring down at the water.

"Want me to take a shot at it?" Tierra asks after I miss the first snook.

"Only if you'll let me have some," I sigh, not sure if I should accept or deny her offer.

"Fine. I hate fish, anyway," Tierra replies with a shrug, pushing me over so she can assume a stance.

It's a few minutes before either of us spots a fish, but Tierra doesn't swipe at it in time. After I resist the dangerous urge to tease her for it, we start waiting, for a lot more minutes, but no more fish come.

"I don't think the intimidation thing works very well for fishing."

"Shut up." Tierra sighs, backing up to lean against a tree in acquiescence. I sigh as well, looking up at the sky. The trees are thin enough here to actually see upward; it looks like it's late-afternoon-ish, but I'm not completely sure. I just know I'm certainly hungry enough for it to be that late.

I put a hand on my rumbling stomach. How am I going to keep from going hungry here? I can't catch any fish, and I'm not going to get any donations for myself. I bet Twig's out there with the Careers, eating his heart out and wielding whatever expensive weapon that only the united District 4 could afford. Every other Career district would be at a slight disadvantage, having to care for two tributes. But not ours! Oh, no, no one has to worry about that weak little girl. We'll just let her starve. It just means less competition for Twig, right?

"Uh, Circe?"

I snap back to attention, noting with surprise the dripping red around my knuckles. I must have been pounding the trunk behind me unconsciously. I shake some of the blood off disgustedly.

"You know, in a wet, muddy, marshy place like this, that's going to turn fetid pretty quick."

"Thanks for reminding me of my hopelessness," I grumble, smearing the rest of the blood on the side of my shirt.

_Scree! Scree!_ I look up to see a lone seagull gliding above us. If only I had a javelin! That bird would make some good food, I'm sure. Positively better than nothing.

I wouldn't mind killing one, despite the reminding of District 4 from their omnipresence there. I never liked seagulls, really. They're loud, they soil all of the piers, and they've been known to take Dad's fish right off his hook when they're hungry. The sight of one gull here isn't all that nostalgic, since I've only seen massive, swooping clouds of them back home.

Home. I have to wonder what Mom and Dad are thinking, watching me now. Are they proud I deserted Oakley, or just glad that it ended up being a lucky move? Are they frowning or chuckling at my inability to catch fish? What do they think of Tierra? She doesn't come off as friendly, but she's really a good person.

I keep that in my mind as she shoves me over onto the wet bed of roots.

"What the—" I'm interrupted by the sudden, loud chirping of locusts. No, not locusts, I realize as the increasingly louder chirping takes on a low-pitched undertone. Meat-seeker locusts.

They're not that common in the parts of District 4 we still have use for after the rebellion. But there are societies of them out in the Abandoned Fields, so we've been taught about them in school. They're twice as large as normal locusts, airborne, and ready to swarm their entire lives. But the most dangerous part is the carnivorousness. They're successful mutts of the Capitol, so of course they can't just eat plants; no, they go after humans, dead or alive.

And a cloud of them is passing over us now. They must be far up if they haven't smelled us yet, but I'm still scared to move. Tierra's in an army-crawl pose right next to me, her neck craned so she can keep a watch on them.

"Are they high up?" I dare to whisper.

"Yeah," she murmurs. "It looks like about half of them have passed us now."

"All right…" I take the chance of turning over to look at the meat-seeker locusts.

They're flying madly, a shimmering, yellow sheet of oversized bugs looking for their next piece of prey. I pity anyone who's taking shelter in a tree today.

But why has the Capitol already released its first threat? There were two deaths a just few hours ago! Have they already gotten bored with us? Decided they wanted to see someone die, whether or not another tribute killed them?

One way or another, the chirping has faded, and the last of the meat-seeker locusts has passed us by.

"Good," Tierra sighs, getting back on her feet. "Wouldn't want to run into those."

"Have you before?" I ask, noting how she immediately recognized them and took the correct route to avoid them.

"Yeah. They still have a few colonies in District 7," she replies, looking out in the meat-seeker locusts' direction like she thinks they're coming back.

I hope they aren't.

"You throw javelins, right?" she continues.

"Uh, yes," I reply. It seems I wasn't the only one paying attention at the Training Center.

"I have an idea," she states simply, leading the way as the lighting starts to dim. I realize we're headed toward the Cornucopia just moments before we arrive in the field of bamboo-weeds.

She expends an unnecessarily large amount of effort splitting one of them to a reasonable length as I slosh toward her.

"Don't have a knife," she says, "so this won't be easy, but…" She walks over to a tree trunk and starts grating one end of the bamboo-weed on it.

"Ah!" Why hadn't _I_ thought of that?

She continues to grind the tip against the trunk, and I insist on taking it from there, though she's not hard to convince.

I've just about finished a whole side of the bamboo-weed by the time the sun sets. Tierra and I head back into the mangroves—we'd be too easily seen that close to the Cornucopia—as I hear the Panem anthem begin. We make our way to a gap in the trees to watch the faces. Two appear tonight.

And they belong to Oakley and Maddox.

I'm not quite sure if I'm happy or sad at their passing. On one hand, they won't be hunting me, but on the other, I still feel like some sort of real bond was formed between us among all the lies. But that's probably just me imagining things.

We've walked a few more steps before I realize I'm lagging behind.

"Circe! If you're not dying, I suggest you hurry up."

"Sorry! I…" My legs protest at continuing to carry my weight. "I can't… I've never stayed up, and… I…" She's turned to look at me quizzically now. "I… Wake me up for… for watch, okay…?"

I slump to the ground.


	12. Departure

There's a sharp pain in my side, and I tumble over before rushing to get to my feet. We're under attack! Is it a Career, or one of the other tributes? Is Tierra already gone?

"Your watch."

My vision clears, and though it's still dark, I make out Tierra sitting on a gnarled chair of roots.

"I thought we were under attack!" I hiss, afraid to make much noise when I'm sure the Careers are on the hunt. "Why did you have to kick me?"

"Would you rather have had me scream at you or dump muddy water on your face?"

"Whatever," I sigh. "I'm up now."

"Good. Don't try to steal my food," she finishes, settling in her little nook.

"I won't," I reply quietly with a roll of my eyes. She's overly paranoid about getting her cheese stolen.

Then again, she's not an expert at fishing, and I'm starving.

Trying to keep myself from falling back asleep, I retrieve my half-javelin and start to rub it against the nearest tree, slowly to avoid disturbing Tierra.

But I'm already tired from hunger, and the repetitiveness of the grating is soon to begin to lull me to sleep, so I set the bamboo-weed down and seat myself, lightly tapping a pattern on the root next to me.

No matter how many times I change the rhythm, though, that lulls as well, so I just sit there, staring down at the black water in the dubious hope that a fish will jump out.

I cycle between these three activities for an hour or so before I hear a crunch. I stop my tapping and listen. There are no more crunches, but I swear I hear some whispering.

I'm about to kick Tierra in the side to wake her up, but I decide to just call her name in her ear until she moves.

"Wha…? I just got to sleep," she mumbles.

"Someone's coming," I whisper, looking back toward where I heard the crunch.

"Crap!" Tierra hisses, getting to her feet. "Follow me, and if you snap one twig, I'll kill you." She stumbles over a few roots and starts to scale the large tree she comes to. I follow quietly, and I'm up in the lowermost branches before a ball of torchlight in the distance makes me freeze.

"You're too close to ground!" Tierra whispers urgently, but I can't get myself to move. Not only is the increasingly louder Career pack coming towards me, the light has shown me exactly how high up I am. So I sit there, frozen, and watch the pack come toward me.

In the lead is Twig—of course—followed by District 1's remaining tribute Kyta, and then the two tributes from District 2 walking alongside each other.

I have to admit I'm kind of surprised that neither Odyss nor Shaw attempted to join the group. Both of them scored quite high in their sessions with the Gamemakers, so the pack may have let them in. They must have their own reasons for not joining, I guess.

"Cir—"

"Over here!" Kyta's husky voice interrupts Tierra's. "I think I saw something move," she continues, directing Twig's firelight toward us. I can only cling to the tree branch like a desperate parasite and hope the leaves and roots below me manage to mask my presence.

But the Careers are definitely headed in my direction, and I clench my teeth in a sad attempt to make myself stop shaking. Just make it quick, I beg mentally. Please don't torture me.

Something lightly lands on my back, but I'm too paralyzed to flinch. The weight lifts, and I think I hear some sort of victory hiss from Tierra. Did she get a donation now? It can't be a weapon; it didn't feel nearly heavy enough for that. It couldn't be food, because she's not narrow-sighted enough to be excited over that when we're about to get killed. So what is it?

Unable to blink or look away, I stare down at the Careers, who are just two trees away from us now. Tierra's shifting somewhere above me, but I can't move to look.

The Careers are almost right next to us now, and a sword of steel glints off the small amount of torchlight.

"Say cheese!" Tierra suddenly screams. I hear a click, and an expanding, white light sears my vision. Before I can recover, I'm boosted off the branch, and I'm being half-dragged, half-lifted across the roots. Just as my eyes start to register the darkness, I start to find my footing, and Tierra lets go as I sprint after her.

I've run into the broad trunk of a tree—receiving a score across my forehead and almost ripping open my pack of water bottles—before my vision finally clears. The blood starts to drip in my eyes, though, and I frustratedly swipe a wrist over my cut, not wanting to lose my vision again.

Tierra and I both run pretty quickly, but I can hear the Careers closing in on us. Tierra suddenly grabs my tank top and hauls me over behind a tree.

"Close your eyes," she warns, and I obey quickly, still sensing the light when she clicks the camera again. "Now go!"

I run after her again, and we've continued for a minute before we start to tire. The Careers, though further behind us, definitely have the advantage in the stamina field. I lean against a stable cluster of roots to pant.

Tierra mutters something under her breath and looks around the scene as dawn breaks. "We're splitting up," she announces. "We'll meet right here," she continues with a grunt as she shoves the camera between two branches, "as soon as possible."

I nod, taking one more second to regain my breath before taking off again, in the opposite direction of Tierra. I stumble over a few roots, and I've only gone a few meters before I hear the Careers realizing we split up. I think they decide to split up themselves, because I only hear two pairs of footsteps coming closer to me.

Now I know I have no chance of outrunning them; I'm pretty well exhausted now, but their feet are pounding the wood fast as ever. Having no other options, I half-climb, half-crawl up the side of a tree as far as I dare. My water is clung tightly to my chest when Rim and Alypso break some roots beneath me.

"She's somewhere around here," hums Alypso seriously, and Rim replies so quietly I can't make out the words, shuffling through the leaves of all the branches at his eye level.

I can only sit here, quivering, and hope they don't catch me or Tierra. The leaves around me are too thick to see them now, but it doesn't sound like they've found me. They're not crashing around the gnarls, so I'm not sure if they've passed, but I am not going to take any chances here. I just sit quietly and sip at my half-bottle of water, cradling the four full ones in the crook of my elbow.

The sun is getting high in the sky by the time I've decided to climb down. I'm quite enthusiastic since no cannons have fired for Tierra, but still wary of the Careers. For all I know, the two chasing Tierra could be near me by now. I shudder, replacing the remainder of my bottle of water in the plastic packaging.

I'm not that far from the camera tree, though, and I've arrived in just a minute. I carefully examine it—the camera's still in the same nook, and there aren't any incisions or wires around—before settling somewhat a tree away.

"Took you long enough."

"Gah!" I jump up and bonk my head on the wood above me.

Tierra moves out from behind another low tangle of branches.

"Why'd you have to do that?" I scream softly. "You could've just… just walked over, and…"

"I'm just mean like that," Tierra sighs with a hint of a laugh.

I hmph and turn away as she approaches.

"Oh, come on. I might as well have a little bit of fun in here while I'm still alive."

I roll my eyes. "Yes. This competition is just a carnival for you, isn't it? A bunch of little girls to terrify—"

"Rim?" Alypso's lilt makes me gasp, but Tierra remains silent.

"Rim?" the voice repeats. "Twig? Kyta?" she continues, a hint of irritation arising in her sweet tone.

"She's alone," Tierra mutters, looking around before her gaze rests on me. I gulp.

"So," my ally starts, "shall we stand around here and get killed?"

I raise an eyebrow, but it's clear what she means. Alypso is a threat. We can't just leave her and assume she won't come after us like we could with Chara. She's not a helpless little trinket we don't have to worry about. She's a Career, whether she looks it or not, and we have to register her as our greatest threat.

We can ignore that threat until it comes and kills us both.

Or we can snuff it out right now.

"Let's not," I reply quietly, falling silent until another of Alypso's calls helps me to locate her.

"All right," Tierra grunts with a nod. She looks over her shoulder, but Alypso still isn't within view. "Am I right to assume you have no fight in you right now?"

I nod silently, reminded of the cold truth that I'm not really a competitor in this.

"All right. That means you'll have to distract her in any way possible," Tierra continues. "I'll stay here. You track her down and lead her over, to the right side of this tree," she adds a light punch to the tree right behind her, "and I'll try to knock her out, at least. That sound good to you?"

"Mmm-hmm," I reply shakily. I start toward Alypso's voice, but I can't help but hesitate and look back at Tierra.

"Don't die," she finishes with a smile.

"Right," I reply, managing a meek smile myself as I turn to hunt the Career.

I dart from trunk to trunk repeatedly, hoping the now-silent Alypso hasn't moved much from the last time she spoke. I look around the area obsessively, not wanting to miss the slightest indication of her presence, but I don't see or hear any sign from her.

Well, if I'm going to distract her, I'll either need to be loud or showy. In this limited visibility, showy is going to be hard to pull off, so I go with loud.

With no Alypso in sight, I yank down a tree branch, sending a satisfyingly-loud crack through the air. I jump over a tree, but after waiting a few seconds, it's obvious Alypso didn't notice. Taking a deep breath, I try again, pulling down a branch thick enough I have to jump up and down to get it to crash.

There are another few seconds of silence and stillness afterward, and I frown. She obviously isn't falling for this tactic. I'm going to have to try something different.

I could attempt a fire, but I'm not very good at starting one without flint, as I learned in the Training Center, and I'd probably end up lighting too many of these giant pieces of firewood since they're in such close proximity.

And then a cannon fires.

No. It can't be Tierra.

I drop my water and start sprinting toward her tree.

No. It's not her.

I pass the camera tree.

No.

I round Tierra's tree, shouting her name.

No!

There she is, crumpled on the roots, unskilled slashes and a deep wound decorating her torso.

No! This can't happen. This can't be right. She can't be dead!

I put my hands over the deepest wound, but I know it won't do any good. Her eyes are already starting to glaze, and I can only stare at her, utterly traumatized.

_Snap!_ I whirl around, facing Alypso. The one who killed the only friend I've had in this arena.

But it is not I who has the weapon; in Alypso's hand is a spear, its sharp edges stained with Tierra's blood.

Before my shattered mind manages to analyze the situation, Alypo hurls the spear at top speed.

I can't dart out of the way in time. Instead, I find myself ducking down, redirecting the small blade's target to my open mouth. It slices my tongue and pierces the back of my throat, but I don't stop. I can't.

I flip the weapon back toward Alypso before the little cretin knows what's going on.

"_Die!_" I shriek, hurling the spear straight for her heart. She falls backward, and I approach her to pull out the weapon.

But once it's out, I don't run. Almost blinded by tears, I stab her again. _For killing my ally._

I stab again. _For killing my friend._

_For killing the only chance I've ever had in this forsaken death pit._

But the shadow of a hovercraft falls over me, and I'm forced to retreat, taking one last, blurred glance at Tierra before I run away.


	13. Pick Your Poison

**A/N:** Thanks so much, everyone, for the comments. I really love them. 3 Keep on? And also, the tribute field is narrowing, and this story will finish soon... **But**. I have been contemplating some alt-POV versions of this. Like, the same story, but from Iah's point of view, or Oakley's. If I get five comments or more on that, I will start it after Lucky Lady is done. So, enjoy it while it lasts... *evil laughter*

I blankly grasp my water bottles, trying to keep them out of range of the blood pouring out my mouth. I continually gag and choke on it, whether I'm trying to breathe through my nose or my mouth.

Now a cluster of the crimson liquid forms at the top of my throat, and in a few seconds, it's cut off my breath completely. I sit, doubled over, trying to let it flow out, but there's just too much blood.

Is this how I'm going to die? After everything I've just gone through? See my friend's deathbed and killer, and only manage to run away before perishing myself?

But what do I have to live for anymore?

I retch, and the blood finally thins enough for me to resume breathing, but in exaggerated, short gasps. I crumple over further, just watching the water and roots at my feet become redder and redder.

If anyone is going to kill me, now's the time to do it. I'm too dizzy to get back up, I'm in no condition to fight back, and I'm sure they could even track me from the reek of all this blood.

But as time passes, my wounds finally start to clot up, and there's still no sign of any of the other tributes.

I hack once more, and the last of the threatening blood exits my mouth. I sigh, looking down at the puddle of blood and water beneath me. It's almost enough to convince a person that _this_ was the scene of the bloodbath.

I'm about to start to drink the few gulps of water I have left in the fifth bottle before I suddenly halt. If this looks like a deathbed, anyone who comes across it will assume items nearby were just perfectly-fine resources left behind by the dead tribute, right?

I swirl the water in the bottle around for a moment. On top of that idea, Rim has no clue what's poisonous and what's not, so he'd be an easy target for something like this.

But I don't have any poison. The best I could do here is throw some mud in it and hope he doesn't notice. But even Rim wouldn't be ignorant enough to down that.

I look around my surroundings, but all I can make out are a bunch of trees. If there's anything poisonous in this place, it's underwater.

But I think I've proven beyond a doubt that I cannot catch fish. And the worst affliction I could cause from one of those is a little bit of food poisoning, anyway.

But if fish aren't the only things underwater…

I start to poke around the underwater portions of the roots with the dull end of my spear, hoping to find some signs of anemones. I've bumped into a lot of mud and a few large rocks—or possibly coral—before the handle comes against something squishy.

It takes me a while to pry it off with the sharp end of my spear, but I've soon speared it and set it on top of the roots at my feet to see it's a Hell's Fire anemone.

We haven't had any of them in District 4 since the rebellion; the entire west coast, where these creatures live, ended up irredeemably scarred and was tagged as part of the Abandoned Fields. But, being the little nerd I am, I read about it in one of our old textbooks once.

There wasn't much information on it other than stay away—it hurts like its namesake if you make contact—and it contains something-or-other-toxin in its extremities.

So if the toxin causes searing pain on the outside, what will it do if it gets to the inside?

I slice at the brightly-colored tentacles carefully, and when I've gotten a considerable amount of liquid on my spearhead, I tap it into the open water bottle. I screw the lid back on—if I add too much, it would be too obvious it's poisoned—and toss it onto the roots carelessly so it appears the supposed victim here only dropped it before she died. I'm very careful only to move the hacked-up anemone with my spear, and it splashes back into the water. Clutching my good bottles of water to my chest, I survey the scene again in the approaching twilight. It looks quite convincing, really. I just hope my strategy works.

I start to rise to my feet, but my knees buckle, and only a cluster of roots saves me from toppling over. I've lost too much blood to go running around here, but I certainly can't just sit around and wait for someone to finish me off. I look up into the leafy branches of the mangrove above me, but I'm not sure if I could make it up there. I'm about to attempt it, anyway, before I remember the meat-seeker locusts scavenging among the treetops earlier. Given the choice of a sword through my heart or being slowly picked apart inch by inch, I think I'll take my chances with the other tributes.

After somehow managing to stumble over a few meters, I settle in a relatively comfy nook in the roots as the anthem starts to play. There's no gap in the branches above me, but I don't care to look. There were only two cannon blasts today, and I already know too well who they were for.

So instead of watching the sum-ups, I unscrew the lid of one of my bottles. Considering I've been about to dehydrate myself to death with my stingy sipping of water thus far, I go ahead and swallow a whole bottle, reluctantly despite its cool magnificence.

I squint at the last three bottles of water as the ending flourish of the anthem plays above me. Three bottles. If I only drink half of one a day—which has been pretty well proven to keep me weak—I'll only have six days, and then, without any clean water, I'm sure to die of dehydration. But if I can't find anything to eat, it doesn't even matter how long the water lasts. _I'll definitely have to try my hand at spear-fishing_, I think as my mind starts to go fuzzy. I rearrange my few supplies as carefully as possible before I black out.

I wake up to a cannon boom. I'm sure I would have given a start normally, but I'm still weak from blood loss and hunger. I only vaguely wonder who died. If the tribute's not an ally of mine or someone specifically after my head, it really doesn't concern me.

I allow myself a few minutes of blank drowsiness before forcing myself to stand and grip my spear. The hot rays of morning sunlight filter through the leaves and cast sparkles on the mostly-smooth surface of the water as I struggle to make out any fish.

But when a snook finally does dart across, I'm ready. My spear plunges into the water and soon starts to slide on the mud, but I pull it back out before it's submerged.

To my delight, I've actually caught the fish. It's fairly large, as far as snooks go, and it will make a perfect breakfast for me. I slice it up—while I've had little experience with chopping up snooks or any freshly-caught fish, it still comes easily—and dump everything but the meat and the eyes back into the water.

I go ahead and choke down the eyes. It's gross and slimy, but I've heard there are essential nutrients in there you can't get from the rest of the fish, though I don't recall whether that was valid for snooks. Oh, well. If they have the slightest chance of helping me, I'll go for it.

The meat is going to be trickier. As long as I've been in District 4, I've never had to eat anything raw. We've always had enough power to properly cook them, provided we didn't attempt to turn two appliances on at once, and the only kind we ever prepared was already frozen to destroy any parasites it could have contained.

But the chances of freezing anything in this sweaty place is zip, and I've already contemplated the dangers of me making a fire here. I guess I could take my chances and eat it raw, but I've been told the dangers of it repeatedly throughout my school years, so I'm hard-wired to avoid it.

I check the perimeter again warily before finally breaking down and gathering twigs near me for a fire. I get the right dampness for more heat and less smoke, but once I've collected them, I hesitate to light them. What if there's still enough smoke for the Careers to find me? I can't run very far in this condition, and one spear would be no match for the weapons of three well-trained Careers.

I shake my head. I've been hoping one would come across the false deathbed I set up, so shouldn't them coming near it be a good thing? If they're far off, I could hike well out of the way by the time they notice the smoke and start toward here. Besides, I'm utterly starving, and I definitely don't want to get sick from my only source of food.

After whirling around a stick on a flat piece of bark, I've gotten some sparks that soon grow into a small flame. I skewer the snook meat and hold it over the fire, warily checking my surroundings as repeatedly as ever.

But no one seems to notice the slender stream of smoke, and I put the fire out before restrictively nibbling at my meal.

Still, I finish the meat in a few minutes easy, and I let the spit sink down into the water as I retrieve my three bottles, taking a sip out of one, and grasp my spear.

Where to now? I could try to head back to the Cornucopia, but there are just enough bamboo-weeds to keep me from accurately throwing my spear, yet not enough to hide in. If I stay here, I'm sure to be found. So, what if I headed away from the Cornucopia?

It takes me a few minutes, but I manage to climb far enough up a tree to see my surroundings better. After this ring of mangroves, the trees get thicker and thicker, and then…

It's hard to tell, but it looks like… Just a few feet of either water, or mud, or nothing, and then the sheer cliff face.

I wonder if the Careers made their camp there. It would make a lot of sense; they may be the only ones strong enough to climb it, and anyone progressing up the side would be easy pickings for an arrow or knife. But if they are camping there, surely I would not want to go any closer.

So, either I go to the Cornucopia area and lose my offense and defense, or I go toward the cliff, where the Careers are probably watching and waiting for me.

Guess I'll take my chances with the Careers.

I climb back down and slowly start toward the thicker groves. I've only gone a few steps, though, before I hear swearing in the distance.

Phemus.

I scramble back up a tree—I'd be no match for him in any sort of hand-to-hand combat—and wait.

Sure enough, it's him crashing through the roots and swearing up a storm. Once he comes into sight, the first things I notice are his empty hands. Somehow, he lost his axe. It's not hard to imagine he would here; nothing ever seems to last long in the Hunger Games.

But as he draws closer, I distinguish a large slice on the side of his face. It leads clear into a dark red pool where his good eye once was. I look away, not wanting to imagine the process that created the mess.

But he's unmistakably drawing closer to me, so I can't afford not to keep my gaze affixed on him. If he runs into me, I'm sure he would be able to kill me.

But I have a spear now. I could strike first, and not have to worry about him getting to me. I have an advantage, and I'd be wise to use it.

There's still something nagging at me, though. No matter how horrid the conditions are here, I can't bring myself to consciously kill. When I attacked Alypso, I don't think I was quite sane, and my planting of poison doesn't seem the same as thrusting a weapon through the heart of someone walking right in front of me.

But look at Phemus. He's unarmed and blind; he couldn't survive for long here. Maybe it wouldn't really be so evil if I only killed him quickly…

"Do you want to die?" I ask, trying to keep my voice from quivering.

Phemus stops his steam of profanity and looks around. "Who's there?" he barks, looking directly at a tree three meters away from me.

"Um, Circe," I answer, slowly climbing down from the tree while keeping my spear ready.

Phemus grunts. "Of course I don't want to die," he finally replies bitterly. "Does _any_ human being want to?"

"Well, I couldn't say…"

Phemus looks around again, but still can't manage to locate me. It's possible to understand. I learned this place can warp your sense of hearing when I took off after Alypso; I didn't know she was in a completely different location than where my hearing placed her.

"I don't want to… die!" he repeats, slamming a fist into one of the trees, which actually starts to tip over. I shudder.

"But what else could I do in this place?" he continues, gritting his teeth and letting out another string of profanities.

"Would you make it quick?"

I stare at him dumbly. He's really asking me to kill him? "I-I'll try," I stutter, clearing my throat before I continue. "I'm good at throwing this," I wave around my spear before remembering he can't see me, "and I could probably…"

"Just do it, already!" he spits, standing up. "As long as I don't have to die by the hands of the Careers." He swears again with a sigh.

I gulp and walk around him a little, trying to find a good throwing spot. I'm starting to think I may not kill him if I aim for his heart; he does have quite a barrier of muscle in that area.

So what can I aim for but his useless, bloody eye?

The cannon fires, and I check Phemus's clothing for supplies, but I find none before the hovercraft arrives. I pull my spear out and back away as he ascends to the sky and abruptly disappears.

That was lucky. I really ran into someone who had no way to live, and didn't mind being killed quietly. How is it that I keep avoiding death by luck alone?

Whatever the secret is, I'm convinced it won't last long.


	14. Eye for an Eye

**A/N:** Sorry for the wait, everyone. Hectic packing-up-stuff for Spring Break. Internet connection here is erratic, so don't expect me on much. And remember, I need four more replies about it (from different people, mind you!) if you want me to write the alternate-point-of-view versions of this.

I've been sneaking through the forest for almost a whole day now, and the trees have gotten so close together I have to climb to the top of one and jump across patches of leaves to make any sort of progress. It would be much more terrifying if I could see the ground at all.

But I can't. And that means I'll have to get a heck of a lot farther, to that empty patch of something-or-other, if I want to eat again.

I continue forward for a few more minutes before exhaustion gets the best of me, and I settle down to sip on my water supply.

So, what now? I know I'm headed for the empty space, but what will I do then? Just sit around and eat and drink until my supplies are gone, and then die of dehydration?

But what else could I do? I'm really not a hunter. I'm really not cut out for this kind of thing. But the only real option is to go on the hunt.

How could I do that? I certainly have the right weapon, but there's so much more than that to consider. What would I do? Wait for night and get the watchman before he can alert the others? Well, for that, I'd have to 1. know the Careers' location and 2. find a hiding space that I can throw from. I'm not sure if they'd allow me that luxury, but being high-and-mighty as they are, it could be possible.

But the question is less of "How can I kill them?" than it is "Could I kill them?". I mean, I'm just not one of those girls that hates people. I'll stick my tongue out or yell at someone for a while, but I almost never wish anyone harm. I'm not quite sure how I've done even this much, aside from that fit of insanity. Could I really bring myself to kill other teenagers in cold blood?

But that's what the Capitol wants. Oh, wouldn't they love it if I gave them a show? If that sweet little girl from District 4 turned into a vicious murderer? They'd just eat that up, now, wouldn't they?

"Quit complaining."

I flinch, not trusting my hearing to place Kyta's voice, and shove myself into a hiding place. A tiny gap in the leaves is all I can see through, but that's fine with me.

The Career pack is traversing below me now.

"Er furgin' _hurs_," comes the muffled reply. I think it was Rim, saying something hurts.

Sounds like it must be his mouth.

"We have plenty of water," Twig scoffs. "Don't know why you felt like we needed that little bit left in the bottle."

Rim actually fell for the trap? I mean, that's what I was expecting, what I was hoping for, but… I guess I didn't really think something so convenient would actually happen.

Of course, it didn't kill him, but it injured him. That's still better than I thought it would turn out.

Rim grumbles something back now, but I can't understand him.

"Hey, wait," Kyta interrupts, holding her arm out.

I freeze, hoping I didn't do something to get her attention.

"What, somebody else finally show up?" Twig asks, looking around.

"I don't know… I definitely heard _something_," Kyta replies with a frown.

"Well, screw it. If they want to hang around our campsite, we'll wait until they try to kill us. It's no fun tracking them down in this crap."

"Urreed," Rim replies. No one pays attention; I'm pretty sure they don't understand him.

So I'm close to their home base? In this mess? I don't think the Careers would ever want to set up camp here, where they have to crack and trample and rip away branches just to get through. Heck, their donations probably couldn't even get to them here.

But I am awfully close to that empty area… That must be it, then! They didn't bother climbing the cliff because no other tribute would be dumb enough to try and approach them there. But whatever that gap in the trees is, it's comfy enough for them to hang around.

The Careers have fallen silent, and they've made enough progress to escape the little sliver of sight I have hiding here. I wait a minute more, until the snapping and splintering grow distant, before daring to budge.

I contemplate climbing down—it'd be easy to track them through the trail they left—but I'm really not sure if I'm actually going to go after them. I mean, they're expecting me. They're just going to sit around and wait and eat their goodies from the Cornucopia until they hear enough roots shuffling to jump out and swing some swords around.

But what else am I going to do? If I drink a bottle of water a day—which really still isn't enough—I only have today and days after that. And when I run out… Well, I'm good as dead then.

So, do I want to cling to two more terrifying, cramped days? Or do I want to go do something, survive, and…

No. No matter what I pull, I'm still not going to win this thing. Even if I take out the Careers, there's still Odyss and Shaw, and either of them could finish weak little me off without even having to use a weapon.

But whatever I decide to do, I can figure out tomorrow. It's already getting pretty dark, and I'm not going to find anything to eat before my little biological curfew.

So, I settle into the high part of a tree, two remaining bottles on my belly as I sip at the last of the third. The sun, wherever it's been for the last couple of minutes, now goes down, and the Capitol seal is quick to arrive in the sky. There are two faces tonight: first is Phemus, his eye still in existence in the picture, and then Euriloc, the pale boy from District 8. The Panem anthem ends with a grand flourish, and the seal flickers out of the sky.

I twirl the empty water bottle in my hands. I won't be trying to fool anyone with this, so I'll probably bury it under roots in the morning like I did with all the others. My other two bottles, the two more days I'll be able to live in this place, are gripped tightly to my stomach as I curl up and fall asleep.

My mouth stretches open in a silent yawn as my eyes start to open. I wish I could sleep a little longer. It seems so nice… I lie still for a minute, listening to a faint, little hum. I wonder what it is…?

The locusts!

I jump up, almost dropping my bottles over the side of the tree. Sure enough, the humming is getting louder. I need to move. Now.

My feet dangle off the branches, and I slip down, my legs making an awkward split across the two closest roots. The buzzing grows more distinct as I stumble over onto the ground. I struggle up, but only enough to reposition myself to face the sky.

Now the buzzing is loud enough I'm sure they're right over me. I can't see them, though; the leaves and branches and even the immense tangles of roots are too tightly clustered for me to make out the sky.

I am so glad I heard them. I normally wake up at 5:30 every morning, so my internal clock must still be tuned to go off around that time. I just haven't gotten the luxury of sleeping in yet. I probably never will.

The buzzing is starting to fade again, so I'm sure the pack has moved on. I wonder if they'll target the Careers? They seemed to be going that way, but my sense of direction may be a bit off, having just tumbled off a tree.

I shouldn't expect to be that lucky, anyway. Even if the meat-seekers went toward their camp, they'd probably have some Cornucopia goodies to ward off the little suckers, or otherwise some handy, overly-expensive donations.

I can't hear the humming at all anymore, so I risk standing up. Or, at least, however much standing up I can manage in this cramped space. If I want to keep moving, I'll either have to scale some trees again, or find the path the Careers carved yesterday.

I look around for a while before deciding on taking the path. They'll be more likely to hear me than see me in these tangles as long as I cling to the edges of their trail, right? Careful to stay quiet, I slink through the awkwardly-small gaps until I've reached the two-person-wide Career path. I resist the urge to tap into one of the two remaining bottles under my arm and start to use my spear as a walking stick.

"Hello, there."

I can't help screaming a bit in shock as I whip around to confront the voice.

It's Odyss, staring me down with an eerie grin, the Career pathway barely tall enough for him.

"When someone says hello, it's polite to respond," he continues.

"H…hi?" I stutter, taking a step back.

Odyss bursts out laughing, following me to avoid me launching my spear. "Oh, Circe. Circe, Circe, Circe."

I stare blankly as he starts laughing again.

"I don't imagine you know where your name came from, do you, Circe?"

"Uh, um…" I take another futile step back, thumping my shoulder into a tree trunk.

I know my parents have told me a few times how they got my name—a curious little seven-year-old like I was would ask that kind of thing all the time—but I never read the book, or poem, or whatever it was in school.

"A… An epic… by Homer?" I reply shakily, not exactly expecting a pop quiz from the boy who may be my killer.

"Ding, ding! That's correct!" Odyss replies cheerfully but disturbingly. "Circe is a character from Homer's _The Odyssey_. Do you," he continues, "know who the main character in that story is?"

"N-No, I've never read it…"

"Oh, really? How sad," he sighs, sounding like he's more concerned about me not reading my namesake's book than me not being dead at his hands.

I get the feeling he's faking that.

"Well, then, I'll just give you a little rundown of the story, shall I?"

I nod. If he wants to delay my death-by-his-oversized-knife, I have no objections.

"The main character, _Odysseus_, is on a quest to return home, to the one he loves," Odyss starts, staring at something by my ear that must be a somewhat-hidden camera.

I suppose this Odysseus must be who he's named after. What a coincidence… I'd say it out loud, but I'm not sure if he'd approve of me interrupting him.

"One of the obstacles he runs into," he says, thrusting his knife impossibly far into a tree trunk, "is a sorceress named Circe." He pulls the knife back out with a grunt.

"Now, Circe," he continues, sliding the blade against another trunk to rid it of splinters, "manages to fool all but one of his crew into eating her food. Food that turns them all into pigs." He looks at me for a moment, and I nod to show I'm paying attention to his odd monologue.

"But she didn't trick Odysseus, either. In fact, Odysseus managed to do something to get his men back and find a way out…" He twirls his knife around his large fingers and inspects me carefully.

"But, I don't believe my sponsors would like me using his method very much. I think," he finishes, "I'll just _kill_ you instead. That sound good to you?"

"No!" I respond, lashing out for a kick at his abdomen before running off through the path. If I can just gain enough ground to throw my spear… I start to spin around, but a cannon blasts makes me stop mid-turn.

I finish facing him more slowly to see that he has crumpled to the ground. But how? I didn't kill him. I was too busy shaking in my boots to do anything serious.

The Careers! I turn back toward the edges of the tunnel, but before I can get through the first tangle of branches, I hear a solid thump.

I turn back around slowly. Behind the patch of blood where Odyss was moments ago lay another crumpled figure, but there's no cannon. Whoever it is is still alive.

The tribute doesn't look like any sort of harm to be, so I start toward… him, I think. Once I've gotten past the initial tangle of roots, I can make out Shaw's dull, black hair. As I carefully come closer, I can tell he's not any sort of threat to me. There's a scary-looking bow in his hand, and a few shiny arrows in a piece-of-crap little sack slung over his right shoulder, but he is _out_ of it. I have to wonder what happened to him; I don't see any blood, and it looks like he has a pack of food in his back pocket…

He groans, making me jump. His head starts to turn, and in panic, I swipe the arrows from his pack and jump backward. After all, if he just killed Odyss, what motive could stop him from killing me?

On the other hand, I'd sure like to have another ally. He's certainly competent, and if I could just figure out what's wrong with him…

He groans again, but there's a bit of articulation in it this time. I shakily step closer.

"…Water…"

So that's what's got him? Dehydration? Well, I could fix that easily. I take out today's water bottle and scrutinize it. Of course, if I let him have some, I'll have less myself. But if there's a hunter on my side, maybe we could end this before we run out?

I carefully pad over and offer him the bottle as he very slowly starts to sit up. He takes the water from my hand, almost jerking it but not strong enough to, and takes a few sips before gulping half the bottle down. He stares at the remainder carefully before slowly screwing the lid back on.

"…Thanks…" He hands over the bottle, and I take it back willingly.

"Allies?" I suggest immediately, reluctant to give him back the arrows.

"No. That's too complicated… I don't like being in debt," he replies, slowly getting to his feet. "I saved your life, you saved mine… Now we'll go our separate ways…" He shuffles the empty bag on his shoulder and stares hard at the arrows.

What do I do now? He said we're not going to be allies, so would he kill me right now?

And why haven't I killed him? He's perfectly helpless… Darn it, why did he have to kill Odyss right then? Why did he have to save me? I can't do it. I can't.

Setting the arrows on the ground apologetically, I cluster the bottles back under my arm, grip my spear, and run far into the deep mangals, only able to pray that Shaw won't come after me.


	15. Change of Heart

**A/N: **Well, this is a shorter chappy. Hope you still like it. And I still need five comments total on the alt-POV idea if you want me to take a crack at any of those. Well, I hope you like, and review if you will! I do love my reviewers. :3

I'm lost. I was too busy crashing through the trees to get away from Shaw to keep track of where I was going, and now I'm just trying to get myself out of a knot of roots.

I can't slash at them; I'm not strong enough to spear my way out of a paper bag if I can't get any momentum. I don't want to just hack away at the wood because I'll dull the spear blade.

So here I am, sweaty and a little muddy and covered in splinters, trying to squirm out of a narrow space I don't even know how I got into. Fun stuff.

I wonder what time it is now. There are dapples of harsh sunlight through the leaves, but I can't make out the sun from here. I'm sure it's still morning, though it's probably close to noon by now.

Whatever time it is, my stomach knows it's mealtime. Once I manage to get out of this mess… Well, I'll have to figure out where that blank spot near the Career camp is. There is _not_ going to be any fishing in this area without a pole. I can't even see water where I am now.

With a loud rip and a score across my back from a stray branch, I manage to get free. The ripped portion of my shirt flips up over my head, and I have to shuffle around to get my hands free enough to fix it.

I've only just gotten started up a tree when the knuckles on my right hand start to throb. I turn to check it out, but the sight makes me sick.

The area I had injured on my hand days before is now a sickening blackish brown color. I'm sure the cut on my forehead is no better, and the new scratch across my back will turn that way as well, but it doesn't matter. The field of tributes is thinning, I'm close to the Career camp, and I'm either going to go on a killing rampage or get found and killed. Or maybe both.

I don't think a little infection will hurt me that much.

I look back at the path I made—it's not as distinct as the Careers' was, since I'm not strong enough to forge a real path through these things—and I can make out enough splintered branches to pick my way back toward the more open path.

I'm not able to pick out any sounds from other tributes, even though I take a few minutes to make sure, so I start for the Career camp.

The going is significantly easier here, but I'm moving just about as slowly; this is definitely a code-red danger zone. I check for traps, but it's unlikely the Careers would resort to one—Twig and Rim don't exactly seem like the sharpest tools in the shed, and I don't think Kyta would want to bother with wire or buttons, anyway.

But the sunlight grows stronger and stronger, and the dark areas between the rays grow smaller and smaller, and before I know it, I can see through the last two trees in the mangrove.

And the open area is not mud, not shrubbery, but beautiful, clear blue water. I can't say if it's safe to drink—the Careers are sure to have plenty of filtering supplies, so it wouldn't matter to them—but every one of the three-foot-wide islands poking out of it is hard-packed dirt.

I can make out a tightly rolled-up sleeping bag on one of them—it must be a spare they never had to use—but I can't see any more supplies from here, and I don't want to take the chance of walking out into the open.

I hear a shuffling, and I immediately step back into the cover of the splintered mangrove branches. Someone's voice—I think it's Kyta's—is audible, though I can't hear what she's saying. I go ahead and go further into the mangroves, but I have to scale a tree to get anywhere.

From here, I can actually make out the Career camp. Facing me—but thankfully not looking up far enough—are Kyta and Rim, both sitting on their own particularly tall mounds of earth about the same width as the ones I saw earlier. Kyta's glaring at Rim for some reason, and he's glaring back, but I can't seem to make out their one-sided conversation from here.

In the middle of their elliptical camp is a much larger island piled high with Cornucopia goodies and donations. That shiny, purple javelin is at the bottom of the pile, obviously unused. It's kind of irritating, really. That something I wanted so badly but couldn't have made its way so easily into the hands of those that would never use it.

At the sides of the pile, near the water, is most of their food supply. Apples and potatoes and ready-to-eat meal packets that are so, _so_ much more appetizing than fish eyes. But I could never obtain them. The Careers wouldn't be likely to fall asleep before I do, and trying to snatch it in daylight is a surefire suicide mission.

Of course, nearly everything in this place is a suicide mission, but a little food isn't worth it. Although I really am hungry. Hunting near the Career camp wouldn't be a good idea, and it's quite a long way before the trees thin out enough to get to any fish…

_No_, I think, shaking my head to dispel the thought. It's better to go hungry for a few hours than risk a tangle with the Careers.

And what would I do if they caught me? Try to fight back? Make a few weak scratches as they tear me limb from limb? I'm not even sure if I'm able to kill anyone mentally. Unless I have another psychotic incident—unlikely, since all of my allies are dead—I really can't do anything. No reason for me to kill. I can't kill them to get home, because I won't. I can't kill them out of hatred, because the only one of them I really hated is already dead. I can't kill them for the sake of killing, because of my upbringing. All in all, I just can't kill them.

I sigh silently and direct my gaze closer to my tree. Twig is on his own little island, munching down on something.

I wonder what it would be like to be a Career. As a child from District 4, it was always an option for me. Often, representatives would come to our school with posters and speeches, showing us how great a career choice it was. You got out of regular school and into a specialized survival training school, where you learned how to wrap up a wound instead of how the district's livelihood used to be called the Gulf of Mexico. You got an enhanced, artificial diet program that you could never afford to eat without district funds. Everything about your life changed, from the mattress you slept on to the little time you could spend with your family.

I never thought it was worth it. I never wanted to miss out on a single moment with Dad, and that would happen a lot if I were out training 24/7.

But I never thought the Reaping that already seems so long ago would go the way it did. Would I have chosen differently if I did? Would I shun my parents for years but live to make it up to them?

Would I win the Hunger Games?

Well, none of it matters now. I didn't choose that path, and I'm going to have to live with it. Or die with it. We'll just have to see what happens.

I look back down at Twig, and my heart stops.

It's not him; he hasn't shown any signs of knowing I'm here. It's what he's eating.

The Heron family's salmon jerky.

What is this? It's one thing to take all the money, all the weapons, all the supplies, all the food, even. But my own mother worked extra hours in her already too-long shift to prepare some food for me and have enough funds to send it, and once the officials get their hands on it, what do they do with it? They send it straight to Twig!

After all, these are the Hunger Games! We won't let any kindness in here! No mother can be allowed to care for her hopeless child here!

And what about any other support that's been sent for me? Anything from my friends, or just someone who wanted that little underdog to win? Guess what! They send that off to Twig, too!

So here I am, dirty and hungry and dehydrated, staring down the one person here I truly hate.

You are going to die, Twig. You are going to die.


	16. Value

**A/N:** Well, here is the next chappy. One after this may be the last (gaspeh!). I still need 2 comments if you guys want an alt-POV; otherwise, I am pretty much done with the Hunger Games for a while. Well, R&R if you'd like. I do love reviewers. :3

Despite my newfound hatred of Twig, I really can't do much on this horribly empty stomach. So, ignoring my itchy trigger fingers, I start going backward, toward somewhere I can spear a decent meal.

But good-sized gaps in the roots are still an hour or so away. I'm about to just stop and make do with the tiny openings here when I a sudden screech splits the air. It's not human. It's a gull's call.

I look up, and, sure enough, the annoying little bird is up above me, circling around. I'm sure he'd make a good meal, and he's flying low...

I step back from my poor fishing spot and pull my throwing arm back, carefully watching the dumb bird that refuses to notice me. Just before he reaches the spot I'm aiming at, I hurl the spear, and it speeds straight for him, as expected.

But suddenly, the dumb little bird changes his course, and my spear flies straight past. I watch blankly as the weapon continues in a wide arc to land in a tree that's probably a day's walk away.

What. Just. Happened?

I slump back against a tree trunk vacantly, staring up at the air like my spear is going to suddenly fly back toward me.

But it's not.

Did that really just happen? Did I really just throw away—literally—the only chance I've had in this place? My only source of food? My only defense? My only weapon?

Surely I didn't. Surely I'm just imagining things. I've been doing so well. Nothing like this could happen…

Only the sudden cannon blast jerks me back to consciousness.

I wonder who died. Maybe it was Shaw; after all, I don't think he could last long on half of a bottle of water.

But whatever just happened doesn't matter anymore. I've handed myself a death sentence with my impatience, and no matter how many of the other tributes kill each other, I'm not going to win. Without food, I can't travel. Without water, I have no time. Without a weapon, I'm reduced once again to a sitting duck.

I look through the trees in the direction of my spear, but there are so many branches I can only see a few feet away. I can't go after it because I don't have enough water or energy left to get there. But I can't _not_ go after it because I'm completely helpless without it.

So, either I sit here and weaken—right by the Career camp—or I exhaust myself but possibly find my spear—even though I'll be too weary to put it to good use.

Well, I think I'll go marching off to my death instead of sitting here waiting for it.

So off I go, boldly stumbling through roots and scrambling up branches, in pursuit of my only faded hope.

I've been hiking for a few minutes—making very poor progress in the cramped spaces—when something shiny catches my eye. My spear! How did it end up here? I was so sure it'd gone much further. But then again, my eyes don't work as well when I'm exhausted, right?

I shuffle forward enough to reach for the gleam—it's splattered with blood, only furthering my knowledge that it is mine—when a root catches my foot. I tumble over, only getting caught by other branches enough to just stop my neck from piercing itself on the blade beneath it.

I stare, bug-eyed from shock, at the roots and specks of water right below me for a few moments. All this, and I almost get killed by my own weapon. Now, wouldn't _that_ have been ironic?

Once I've settled down from almost killing myself, I slowly lean back on my feet. I have to be careful; a snapped branch could hurl me right back down onto my spear.

So, after a few minutes of standing up, I finally get to see my prize.

But it's not my spear.

It's Phemus's axe.

I go ahead and pick it up, but unlike Phemus, it takes me both hands, and I can barely lift it to my waist.

Oh, what am I doing? I can't use this. I bypassed the axes stand in the Training Center like it was the plague—I couldn't have lifted anything back there, and I was wary of the beginners throwing them around—so I have no idea how to use it. I have a vague idea from watching the last few Hunger Games, but everyone that had one then could actually lift the stupid thing.

I try swiping it through the air, landing about a centimeter into a tree branch before the axe slips back out.

What am I doing? I should just drop this and go on to find my spear before someone else does. But it was so far away… I can't honestly believe my eyes played a trick on me just because I didn't get a meal, after all.

It is hot around here, but I've always been resistant to high temperatures. Not from being in District 4; it never got this hot there save for late summer. It's just kind of something that was always there.

If I don't respond to the heat, it couldn't have been a mirage. Of course, I don't think something as simple as a flub in distance perception could count as a mirage.

So, I have no hope getting my spear back, especially from the useless struggle with this thing. Even after swinging it around for a few minutes, I haven't gotten the hang of it at all.

Well, crap. I guess I might as well keep this; it _is_ better than nothing.

But now I don't have a decent chance to kill Twig anymore.

I stomp the ground—or web of roots as the case may be—in frustration. Now I've done it. I should have gone and killed him right there on the spot. So what if the other Careers finish me off? I don't have a chance in these Games, anyway. I never did.

Well, I might as well head back. The sun has started to fall from the sky, and I'm probably pretty far from their camp by now.

I swing the axe up a bit to clear a branch—a thin one, of course, since I can barely swipe with this thing—and start toward where I think the Career path is.

_Scree!_ A seagull is flying above me.

As if I didn't think badly enough of them before.

I crunch through a few more trees before slowing down.

I'm really exhausted. I still have a little water in this bottle… I set down the axe and pick up my near-empty bottle, taking the last bit of liquid from it.

There's a snap. At first, I think it must be me, or the axe's weight splintering a root beneath it. But I haven't moved, and when I look down at the axe nothing has changed.

Is someone else here?

Suddenly, there's a sharp pain in my right shoulder. I can't help but let out a shrill yelp of pain as I abruptly drop my empty water bottle. My arm limply falls to my side.

What in the world? I can make out a tiny speck of blood, but no weapon to make it and no person to inflict it.

I shuffle over a bit, struggling to get my axe off the ground with my still-functioning left arm. I don't do very well. I growl a bit and drop the useless weight back onto the roots—it's going to be useless until I figure this arm thing out.

There's a barely audible crunch to my right now, and I turn just in time to see a thin gleam of metal. I instinctively jump to the side, and whatever was just thrown must miss; nothing else of mine is going limp. I look about wildly, trying to figure out where the attack had come from, before I finally see her.

Kalis. The little girl from District 3 that I had completely forgotten about. That I had looked upon sadly in the assumption she'd be quick to die.

But she hasn't been killed yet.

And I think she's planning to kill me.

"Kalis…?" I start slowly, moving a bit to the right so the slight view I have of her increases. I don't get a response. "Kalis, you don't need to kill me," I continue softly, still incomprehensive of her need to murder me in the first place. "We could be allies. I… I have some water—" I shrug my left shoulder, under which my last water bottle is placed— "and an axe… I won't use it against you, though," I assure quickly. Kalis's dark brown eyes stare me down coldly as I gulp audibly.

"I don't need allies here," she replies, her voice quiet but hard. "The only help I need is from my sponsors." She steps away from the small mangrove trunk she was behind, and her eyes probe me again.

"Well, if we ally, you could get things from my sponsors, too…"

Yeah. Sure. _I_ don't even get things from my sponsors.

"…We're talking too much," Kalis finishes, bringing her arm back. I leap away into an empty area before she manages to throw whatever she's been throwing.

"A-Are you sure you don't want to…?" I trail off; she's made it clear that she doesn't want allies by now.

What do I do? I can't just stay here and jump around in the hope that I won't get hit. If I run, she'll be able to catch up—her small body would be even better than mine at navigating the narrow spaces between branches. I could fight back, but I'd have to use the axe. And I'd be killing a twelve-year-old.

Did I already mention I hate, hate, _hate_, having twelve-year-olds in the Games? I think I did. And now I'm about to try and slaughter one—the exact action I've cursed oh, so many tributes for in the past.

But, I only hated twelve-year-olds in the Hunger Games because they were always so helpless, like Sunil. Kalis is definitely not one of the helpless ones—she's survived this far without any allies, even. So am I really trying to do something I hate, or just something I need…?

I jump around a few more times, though Kalis by now has figured out my game. She's not throwing anything else, but I'd like to keep it that way.

Did I really expect to get through the Hunger Games without killing a person I had no vendetta against? No one ever manages that! Somehow, I led myself to believe I could get out of here by only hiding, letting everyone else duke it out and somehow stepping out victorious.

But now I know that won't happen. If I want to win, to see Mom and Dad and Iah again, I'm going to have to kill. I'm going to have to kill little Kalis.

Well, I can't do it without a weapon; I'm decent at hand-to-hand, but my right arm is good as gone, and I don't think I'm strong enough to track her down—should she take flight—and snap her neck. So, I'd either have to steal her weaponry—I have no clue what's she using, but I'm sure I don't know how to use it—or use the axe, which I don't really know how to use, either. Well, the axe would at least be easy to get my hands on…

I skip over a bit, enough so that my axe is within reach, and grasp the handle tightly with my left hand. Before I can shift it, though, another sharp pain pierces my neck. I cough, panicking for a moment. Is this how I die? At the hands of a cruel little girl, before I even get to defend myself?

But it seems that Kalis somehow missed her mark, even though my short hair should have made it easy for her to aim for the neck.

I tug at the axe, and it slides back some, but I can't lift it up. I shuffle around it quickly, anticipating another attack, and pull at it again. It still won't come up.

Oh, no. Now I've done it. I've stranded myself here with a weapon I can't even lift up, let alone use. Now Kalis is going to finish me off for sure, without getting so much as a scratch on her.

A sharp whizzing noise goes past my ear, and I jerk up to see Kalis's face; she looks very perturbed. She steps closer, readying her arm again.

Suddenly, I hook my foot under the axe and kick hard, managing to get the thing up in the air long enough for me to spin and hurl it at the totally unprepared Kalis. She's struck hard in the stomach and collapses backward.

She doesn't get the chance to throw anything else.

Trying not to look at what's underneath it, I grasp the axe again, limping around with most of its immense weight on my foot as the cannon goes off.

So, I've gone and killed a little girl who was trying to kill me.

Aren't the Hunger Games wonderful?


	17. Dead or Alive

A/N: Well, uh, false alarm. This is not the last chapter. The next might be, or there may end up being two more. Depends. And I still need two more comments telling me to try the alternate-point-of-view idea in order for me to do it. And sorry for the overl-long update time. Major writer's block. x.X;; Apologies for the swear word that appears here. I could not figure out another way to word it... And now I will shut up and let you read, neh?

I wiggle my fingers a bit. My entire arm is still eerily numb, but I can at least move my hand a little. I'm still far from being able to lift the axe, but that's okay. I'm just glad whatever Kalis did to me isn't permanent.

But what I did to her definitely is.

I can't believe I actually killed her. I just can't seem to register that—and I don't think I want to. Whether trying to kill me or not, a twelve-year-old is a twelve-year-old. To think that I really stooped so low as to do exactly what I've hated so much about the Hunger Games! It's not surprising that I'd refuse to admit it.

I'm at the very edge of the mangrove now, but I'm too exhausted from dragging around the axe to jump over and attack Twig. He'd probably just snap me in half, not getting a scratch on him, when I'm in this state.

Or probably any state.

But if I'm to have any chance, I shouldn't go now. I'll just stay here and… Well, I dropped my water bottle, so I guess I'll just set up for the night. The sunlight is starting to dim, after all.

I set the axe down in a gap in the roots, just letting its blade touch the water's surface, and look around. The trees aren't as closely clustered here, so just sitting down to sleep for the night is not a good idea, especially if the Careers go hunting. Building a shelter would probably be too conspicuous—a lot of good that survival station ended up doing for me—so I'll have to find a decent place to hide instead.

I could climb up a tree; the branches are hard to see through. But I'm not sure I could scamper up there without the use of my right arm. And then there's the meat-seeker locust problem.

But where else could I hide? There aren't any particularly obscuring knots of roots or branches, so I couldn't just crawl behind one of those. So I have to find a place they wouldn't care to look…

But I'm sure they'd search everywhere; the Careers haven't been known to be careless on their nighttime hunts. If I were to rustle the leaves in the slightest, or roll over in my sleep and snap a thin branch, or even snore a bit like Dad keeps jokingly claiming I do, then they could find me. Of course they could; they've been trained for the Games, so they know how to deal with a bunch of trees in their way.

This environment is a bit different, though; there have been plenty of forests in the Hunger Games—5, to be exact—but never anything like this mangal. So what makes the mangroves different? There are roots sticking up everywhere, but that's hardly different from low-lying branches. But all the other forests were on solid ground…

Well, that difference isn't very useful. I can't just hide underwater; I couldn't breathe, and the bamboo-reeds are much too far away for me to consider going back for one.

I peer down at my feet. I couldn't even get to the water through all these layers of roots, anyway.

"Layers," I find myself muttering out loud. If I could find a considerable gap between those layers, I could just bunk there for the night. Sure, I'd get a little wet, but surely the Careers wouldn't expect to find a tribute sleeping beneath their feet?

So I scuffle around the immediate area as silently as I can, wedging my foot under any roots that seem suitable to sleep under until I finally find a gap large enough to fit in. I'll have to go into the fetal position, and it'll be a tight squeeze, but as long as I'm safe, I don't think I'll mind a little discomfort.

I go back to fetch my axe, deciding to hang out a bit before I crawl under the roots. I do want to see the death toll; I might as well know what I'm still up against. I set my too-heavy weapon down in a considerably thick but small tangle of low-lying branches. After a minute of tromping around on top of my "bed"—I want to be sure it won't break should the Careers walk over it—the Panem anthem blasts, and the seal must be appearing above me.

I have to walk back a few meters before I catch a glimpse of the seal disappearing. The first face to appear belongs to Kalis. I almost have to look away, but I manage to hang on long enough to see the next dead tribute.

It's Twig.

At first I'm sure there must have been a mistake. I mean, it's _Twig_! How could he have been killed? I've been near their camp all day, and I'm sure I would have heard if they had started to turn against each other. I can't imagine any other tribute managing to kill him—well, except me, in my little fantasies, but that obviously didn't happen—so there must be a mistake. They must have been ready to show Odyss's face, and accidentally pushed the wrong button.

But now Odyss is overhead, and soon the Capitol seal is showing again.

There were three cannons today. Three tribute faces shown at dusk. There were no mistakes.

But how in the world could Twig, of all people—

My thoughts are interrupted by a sudden sway in my knees, almost sending me to the ground.

I need to get under those roots. Now. I can worry about pointless things once I'm ready for bed.

After carefully slipping one leg under the roots I've chosen, I sit for a minute. Sleeping underneath this seems like such a weird choice, but I guess there isn't another real option at this point. I take a deep breath and shuffle beneath, settling on a patch of smelly, damp roots. It's about as cramped as I thought it would be, and now that I'm under here, I'm starting to regret it, but oh, well. I'll just have to deal with it.

So… How exactly could Twig have been killed? I can't imagine anyone around here qualified to take him out…

But before I can manage to put much thought into the matter, my eyelids are already slipping over my eyes, and I fall asleep.

I wake up to a cannon boom. I have no clue who died, but I'm fine, and that's sadly all that matters here. I wiggle out of my bed of roots, a feat made easier by the slightly higher level of water slicking the wood up for me.

So… what shall I do first? I am pretty hungry, but I can't catch anything with just this axe. I am close to the Career camp, though…

Oh, what am I thinking? Surely they'll be prepared enough for a weakling like me to try and raid them.

But a cannon _did_ just go off. Maybe they were out on a night—or as the case may be, early morning—hunt? If they were, they shouldn't be close to their camp, right?

But if the cannon went off for someone dying without the Careers' intervention… Well, then, I'd be dead the second I set foot in the camp.

But what the hey. Let's do this thing.

I decide to leave my axe here—lugging it around wouldn't be any help if I'm on a stealth mission—and I sneak over some roots until I've reached the broken-branched Career path. Taking a deep breath, I tiptoe out of the thick mangal's cover.

The camp is pretty much the same as it was before, though I'm sure the size of the islands has shrunk a little. At first glance, no one is around, but I still move along the side of the trees silently until most of the camp is in view. Before long, I can make out the food pile.

I'm guessing they've kept a couple of Twig's donations, because their hoard is freaking _huge_. It takes up five of the islands bridged together by broken branches, and it's about twice my height.

Well, I certainly won't have any problems with selection. There's everything from apples to sandwiches to some sort of saran-wrapped, foot-long shish kebob. And right at the top of the pile is a small, crinkled, brown bag with a small bow of twine tying it shut—the signature short-distance shipping container of my family's jerky.

Yes, it'd be extremely stupid to try to climb up there and snag the jerky. But I want it. I want it so badly. I want my mom to see me enjoying her gift. I want to have that hopelessly wonderful taste of home, even if it's only for a second.

There's nothing around long enough to just reach up there and knock the bag over, and any branches that could get to that height are too thick for me to break off. So I'm going to do something else really stupid.

I'm going to climb up that pile.

It doesn't look stable, but I'm guessing there's actually so much food, everything is packed tightly enough not to give way. I barely manage to get a couple of hand holes—I can still only use one hand—on a loaf of rye bread, a piece of cheese, and something wispy that I'm not sure how I'm gripping.

But I reach the top, and I grab the bag, springing down joyfully. I rip it open and immediately chomp down on the jerky inside.

It's definitely ours. I was always so sick of the taste at home; Mom and I—sometimes Dad and I—were constantly breaking off tiny pieces to nibble in order to ensure the flavoring had settled correctly. Anything you have to eat that frequently will make your stomach turn at the thought of eating it again.

But now, it's different. I haven't had jerky to nibble on in… Well, a long while. It's not a textured, colorful little curse anymore. It's just home.

And then something loudly snaps.

And I'm standing right in the middle of the Career camp.

Oh, crap.

I dive behind the pile of food and look around wildly for someone to run up and kill me, but after a few seconds of listening to my thumping heartbeat, it's obvious no one has found me.

I shuffle around the side of the mass of food, but no matter where I look, I can't find anyone.

Maybe it was just my imagination. Yes, it must have been; surely anyone sounding that close would be here by now!

But I certainly don't feel safe and cheerful here anymore. It doesn't take another fabricated snapping noise for me to dart back toward my little camp and grip my axe. I still can't really lift it, but I do feel a bit more comfortable with a bit of defense at my disposal. I take another look around before settling down to eat.

Not only does the jerky remind me of home, it's completely delicious on a horridly empty stomach like mine. It's not long before I've finished the little bag.

Well, there you go, Mom. I got your donation after all.

Now a loud crunch snatches me away from my reverie, and I commit both hands to the axe.

So, who's coming after me now? It's either a Career or Shaw. Shaw didn't seem like he was going that much further—the cannon was probably for him—so I'm suspecting a Career.

And then, through the trees, I can pick out a human figure coming toward me.

It's Twig.

At first I think I'm imagining it—the heat is particularly sweltering today, so maybe it's an odd sort of mirage—but as he draws closer, I know he's there.

Of course! Of course, of course, of course! I knew he wouldn't be killed off that easily, knew someone else's face should have lit up the sky last night.

And now, here he is, only his body for a weapon, ripe for the killing.

All right, Twig. Looks like I get to send you to hell after all.


	18. Last Day

A/N: Hello, all~ There should be one more chapter after this, and then a bonus epilogue with info on the tributes. I probably will not be doing the alt-POVs... Apologies for the wonky updates. I have been having issues with writer's block recently... And I know I put a sickening plot twist here, but YOU ALL KNOW YOU WANTED IT. Well, get on with reading, and please review!

Twig's coming closer. He knows I'm here, but that's just fine. If I were to surprise attack him, I may not get to see that horrified, dying gleam in his eyes as he weakly slumps over the bloodied edge of my axe.

I grip the handle of my axe harder. My hands have started trembling, though I'm not sure whether it's from fear, excitement, or a little of both.

But here he comes—the tribute who has not only stolen all my donations, but my hope for winning as well—closer and closer…

"Hey, there, districtmate."

I almost drop the axe at the sound of his voice, but manage not to.

"How's it hanging?" he continues, leaning against a tree.

"Oh, the usual," I reply. "I've just killed a child, every person I've teamed up with has died, and I've had all my supplies stolen before they even get to me. Just peachy!" I spit at him venomously.

"That's nice," Twig responds, stretching. I can tell he doesn't have any weapons on him—at least other than his brute strength.

Of course, that's probably all he needs.

So, how am I going to attack? Twig doesn't seem to be wary of anything sudden—of course, with my already-skinny body in even worse condition from the Games, I'm not much to be wary of—and I'd certainly want to strike first—should _he _strike first, I'm not likely to be able to strike second—so… Should I attack now?

Slowly, I experimentally start to lift the axe off the ground, only a little bit so he doesn't notice. There's been no weight change—it's still practically forged from lead—but I know I can lift it when I need to…

"So, you planning on killing me?" Twig starts, making me flinch. He seems almost psychic, until I realize _everyone_ in the Hunger Games would plan on killing him.

"Yup." Without another word, I lurch forward and swing the axe hard as I can into his abdomen. To my surprise, he didn't dodge out of the way in time. But I've still hardly managed to injure him. Guess it's pretty hard to rip through all of that muscle.

Twig effortlessly boxes me off, and I tumble back onto a snapping floor of roots, only staying long enough to regain some blurred part of my consciousness before I bolt up again.

By the time I realize what's going on, Twig's already over me, so, having no better quick solutions, I kick him where it hurts—there's nothing against fighting dirty in the Hunger Games, and he deserves it, anyway—and regain my solid grip on the axe as he flinches back. I swing at him again, not able to lift the axe high enough to hit something vital, but managing to hack a nasty cut into his thigh.

He flinches from this, too, but still manages to grab my head.

With one little twist, he could end my life here and now…

But I won't let him.

Just as my neck starts to itch from its forced pivoting, I whorl around with it, using the limited momentum to dig my axe just above Twig's kneecap.

I must have hit something good, because he's lost balance, his right leg buckling as he tries to recover.

But now, just in this moment, his chest is low enough for my heavy axe to reach.

So I swing.

I must have angled the hit perfectly, because my blade doesn't run up against any bone. It just slices through, leaving a wonderful river of blood gushing from Twig's chest.

I would say I've probably struck his heart, but I know he doesn't have one.

The cannon booms, and I wrench my weapon back out of his torso, stepping back from the body.

"Send Satan my regards," I snarl as the hovercraft takes him away.

So, I've… really done it. I've finally killed Twig.

But before I get a moment longer to reflect on this, the nearby glint of steel forces me to refocus.

I hop back from my pose, barely managing to drag my axe with me as a large sword splinters where I just stood.

I pant, gripping my axe tightly again as the attacker comes into view.

Kyta is there, recovering her sword from the bed of roots, and Rim is close behind her.

"Don't know how you survived this long," Kyta says, assuming a fighting stance, "but now, you're dead." She whips her sword up and slashes at me, my dodging quick enough to avoid all but a few strands of my curls getting sliced.

I swing my axe up, but, slow as it is, I only manage to scuff up the edge of Kyta's pants.

"Hm, you really are pathetic, aren't you?" she sighs. "Ah, well. I don't have any problems with an easy kill." She swings her sword at me again, but I manage to lift up the handle of my axe, which blocks her strike well enough but still gets considerably notched.

This doesn't stop her long, though, for she quickly tugs her weapon back out and swings it around the other way, scoring a long cut across my collarbone that would have gotten my neck had I not flinched away from it.

Kyta suddenly pulls back though, looking like she's in pain. She falls forward, and a cannon booms.

"Thanks for that," Rim says, digging a heinous-looking sickle out of Kyta's back. "Always easier to kill someone when she's distracted."

My hands tighten around my axe's dented edge as I try to ignore the smooth curtain of blood starting to soak into my shirt.

"But, I'll still have to kill you," Rim continues, wiping some of Kyta's blood off his weapon. He waits for Kyta's hovercraft to appear and disappear before he continues. "Let's just say it's payback for that water. Really screwed up my mouth, you know."

"Kind of cocky how you assume you can take me out," I stall, trying to figure out a way to attack. "As a matter of fact, I'm the one that killed Twig."

"That weakling?" Rim chuckles. "Good for you."

"Weakling?" I echo. "He got an 11, you know!"

Rim tosses his weapon between his hands, still laughing. "Did you really think anyone could have honestly gotten a score that high? Isn't it obvious a certain Gamemaker was _bribed_ to give him that score?"

"Wh-what?" I stare at Rim, forgetting my battle plans in the wake of this new information.

Rim's laughter gets louder, echoing throughout the mangal. "You really don't know anything about these games, do you?" he laughs. "The higher your score, the more sponsors you get. Even forking over a couple thou or more for one or two points is a good deal." His laughter fades a bit as he spins his sickle in his hands. "But you know, I'm getting off-topic. How about we get straight to the feature presentation, hm?" He repositions his grip on the sickle and slices at me before I can react, digging his weapon deep into my left shoulder.

I gasp, jerking back, though he's already stopped his attack for now. I'm sure he could've gone to my heart easily, but, now that I think about it, we're the only ones left. This is the last battle of the thirteenth Hunger Games, and the audience will want a show.

Huh. I'm in the last battle of the Hunger Games. How did _that_ happen?

But now's not the time to consider a little think piece. Now's the time to go for broke and win this thing.

Though my vision is starting to grey out from the blood loss, I still think I'm competent enough to swing my axe around a good few times. Managing to dodge Rim's next swipe, I lift up my weapon, slashing at him unskillfully but managing to dig a score through his lower abdomen. He doesn't flinch back much, though, landing another hit on me, this time a thin and long scratch just below my ribs.

Now my vision's gone blotchy, but I can still make out enough to see Rim's position as I use my foot to kick up my weapon, aiming for where I think his heart is. I do manage to hit something, and he cries out, but as what I can see shifts, I can tell I've only dealt him a mark across the middle of his ribs.

He _has_ hesitated, though, so I take the chance to throw all my effort into heaving the axe into his stomach.

I hit my mark—it feels like a nice, deep wound—and Rim inhales painfully, but I find myself dropping my weapon. I'm so dazed, it's hard to tell what's going on, but soon I realize I didn't only drop the axe because of fatigue.

I also dropped it because my right arm is completely gone.

Rim and I must have hit each other about the same time, because I know I had an arm when I shoved the axe into him. However it worked out, it's not that lovely for either of us.

The funny thing is, I don't feel any pain at all. Either Kalis's acupuncture-voodoo magic kept my arm numb enough, or I'm so drugged out on adrenaline and blood loss I wouldn't notice if my head got cut off.

And then a cannon fires.

I don't think it's for me, because I'm pretty sure—though not completely—that I'm still alive. So did I manage to kill Rim? My vision's so far gone, I can't tell, but he was the only other tribute left…

Then, does that mean… I've won?

Out of all twenty-four tributes, the little non-Career from District 4 takes it all? I admit, I dreamed it would happen ever since I got into this mess, but I never thought it would even be close to reality.

So here I am, the winner of the Thirteenth Hunger Games.

Any moment now, Core Brig is going to announce that I've won. His voice is going to boom through the forest, masking the faint humming of the meat-seeker locusts as a hovercraft comes to take me to freedom.

But nothing happens.

I wait more, but there's no announcer, no hovercraft.

Where are they? Has something gone wrong?

My knees sway, and I fall to the ground unhindered. What was wooziness a minute ago is now threatening to swallow me whole.

But I can't just up and die here. After all, I'm the winner of the Hunger Games…

I can't die…

But there's still nothing, nothing to save me, as my blood pours out and my other senses slowly join my vision in the grave.

* * *

I jerk up suddenly, hitting my head on something hard. What's going on? Am I still alive? I blink my eyes, and start to see faint shapes in the darkness. Reaching up to feel whatever this two-inch-high ceiling is, I suddenly recognize that I have both arms.

My ceiling, I realize, is the layer of tree roots I had sheltered under last night.

So… It was all… a dream?

I feel myself over, and sure enough, whatever injuries I had contracted in my battles against Kyta and Rim aren't there.

And that means someone _did _beat me to killing Twig.

But it also means I'm still alive.

I don't think I mind that exchange.

I'm about to slink out of my shelter, but I stop at the sound of nearby voices. It's hard to make out, but I can identify the voices as Kyta's and Rim's—his speech is back to its unintelligible glory—and it sounds like they're arguing, but I don't know about what.

Then there's a crash of branches, and the voices sound a whole lot closer.

"Screw it!" Kyta hisses. "If you're going to be useless, I'll just kill you right now!"

Rim replies something heatedly, but I can't make out the words.

Then I hear the sickening sound of steel penetrating flesh.

Before I can do anything, though, the few shadows I can see shift, and a loud thud right above me makes my eyelids flare before the cannon booms.

I can't be sure what's happened until a tiny shard of light lets me make out the last terrified gleam of the dead Rim's eyes just above mine.

I don't move, don't even breathe, as the hovercraft claw comes down, grinding ever so slightly, and wraps around Rim's corpse, shutting off my last glimpse of him.

Now I'm just gasping hysterically, because I'm sure Kyta will walk over and find me, not to mention that I've just had a cadaver land right on top of me—the thin barrier of roots didn't really help with the shock.

But as time passes and the light of dawn starts to creep in, Kyta has yet to come over here.

_So, I guess I'm safe… for now_, I muse, carefully worming out of my bed and locating my axe and water. I pick up the water bottle with my right hand, but realize I haven't regained the mobility I had in my dream; my hand is fine now, but I can't move my shoulder, and my elbow will only bend halfway.

So I switch to my left hand, open the bottle, and put it to my lips.

Then, I realize it.

This is my last bottle of water.

And, I'm sure, my last day to live.


	19. Lucky Lady

**A/N:** Well, here it is, everyone. The end. I thank you all for sticking around, and I'm glad I have been able to entertain you. :) May the odds be ever in your favor...

Back in school, there were always I few things I never understood. Things like the Pythagorean Theorem, or how a little flap in my ear is supposed to make electric signals.

Another thing I didn't get was how people way back when were _so_ sure the Earth was flat. It seems like such a silly concept, especially when we now know it's round.

But back then, they didn't have things like satellites taking pictures, or records of systems linking all corners of the planet. After all, if you don't have any _way_ to know it, how are you supposed to know it?

But now, I feel like I've just found out the world is round. Like I've just found out the Hunger Games may not be so abject for me after all. After being so _very _sure I wouldn't survive the first day, the second, the third...

And now I've gotten all the way to the final three. Just two others left. Two competitors keeping me from my home, my dad, my mom, my friends, Iah...

I've got a weapon. I'm in pretty good shape; though I'm not going to be running any marathons, I've still got my legs, one good arm, and another arm that can still move some.

And, I can get donations now. Twig's dead and gone—I still can't help but be _slightly_ pleased by that—so there's nothing standing between me and a little sponsor assistance now. Maybe I can get something to eat, or a lighter weapon... Anything would help.

But no parachutes have come floating down from the sky just yet, so I'd better stop sitting here daydreaming.

I know Kyta's close, so she's a natural first target. I'm really not that confident I could take her out, but she'll be a whole lot easier to find than Shaw, who could be anywhere.

The axe slides into my grasp again, and I take a moment to locate the Career tunnel before setting off.

As I come closer and closer to the Career camp, I start to feel edgier and edgier. I _really _don't have much self-assurance in this matter; eliminating Kyta is going to take strength, speed, tactical acumen, and a _whole _lot of luck. I'm not sure I can pull all that off, but... I'll just have to.

The trees are thinning out here; one of the slimmer roots snaps loudly when I try to step on it.

_Just great_, I think. _An admonition for someone who's _already_ too prepared for me._

But if Kyta's noticed, she hasn't done anything about it; my back's against the final ring of trees before her camp, and I haven't heard her move at all. It's almost like... she isn't even there.

I snap to at this realization, and immediately run out toward the camp. I look around wildly, and find no allay for my suspicion—Kyta is nowhere in sight.

I don't realize what I'm doing until I step off the edge of the dirt and stumble into the water.

Snatching a brief gasp of air before I go down, I kick and splutter under the liquid. Panic creeps in, and my forever-hydrophobic mind starts to pull up all the drownings I've imagined myself in. At the bottom of an unknown dark ocean, or off the surface of the Gulf, or underneath a familiar fishing boat just moments too late for Dad to save me...

The warbled sun glares at me as my heels wedge themselves into the mud in the bottom of the pool. I wobble, trying to get up and out of this crushing azure before the little air in my lungs breaks free. All I really manage to do is flail my arms uselessly.

And now I start thinking I might actually die.

Isn't that funny? I get nearly all the way through the Hunger Games, and what kills me is something I could have found at home, anyway.

Such a... funny thought...

I continue to sink, drowsily watching little bubbles escape my mouth, when something taps me between the eyes.

I blink confusedly, waving my hands up to make contact with what just touched me.

It's some sort of string, and, not worrying to think about it, I automatically grasp the thing and start pulling on it.

It comes down easily for a while, but it starts putting up resistance soon enough—and when I keep reeling it in, it actually begins to pull _me_.

Just as my mind's gone hazy enough to block out my vision, my head suddenly splashes up out of the water, and I immediately start coughing and spluttering and gasping for air.

I open my eyes—apparently I had closed them when I came up—and when I'm done blinking the water out of them, I finally make out what I had been clinging to: the black strap to a lifejacket.

I cough a few more times and pull myself over the bright orange thing, noting the silky, white parachute attached to it.

So, I've received my first donation. I think it came in handy.

I lazily paddle forward, keeping an eye out for any other tributes but still seeing no one. My hands soon grasp one of the hard-packed dirt islands, and, slipping one arm through the lifejacket, I pull myself onto the land.

I just lay there panting for a few minutes, letting the water slide off my soaked skin.

So, I'm alive for now, after all. Those sponsors finally got to send something to _me _instead of Twig. And I kind of like it.

I sit up slowly, swiping the wet mess of hair out of my eyes, and put the lifejacket all the way on. It's not heavy enough to drag me down, so I might as well.

Standing up is the next step, but I'm quite wobbly, and at first I think I'm going to pitch over into the water again. I do manage to get up without that misfortune, thankfully.

So. Let's go find Kyta.

I shuffle my feet, not wanting to go too fast. But even at this snailish pace, I'm remarkably dizzied.

I guess I just don't have enough energy. I mean, I just battled for my life underwater, and I'm honestly not sure when the last time I ate was.

The last time I ate... I _really_ wouldn't mind some food now... But I can't catch anything; I've lost my spear, and I don't think I could snag a fish with my axe.

My axe!

Eyes flaring as I suddenly register the loss of my weapon, I instinctively look around to find it. But I know it's underwater, slowly sinking down into a deathbed of mud.

I curse at my stupidity and stomp the ground, though doing so makes my legs wobble. Just great! I accumulate an outright _argosy_ of weaponry here, but every time I get my hands on something good, I just throw it away! Literally!

I'm about to go stomping on the dirt again when I hear a tiny, faint _clink_ just behind me.

Slowly, I turn around. A billowing, white parachute is settling over its cargo on an adjacent island.

Could it be a weapon? Whatever's there is pretty small—the parachute's only about two square feet—so if there _is_ something pointy and useful there, it's probably light enough for me to actually use.

I take an immediate step to the edge of my island, and, when it makes me dizzy enough to be unstable, decide to slow down.

My donation's little private island is a good jump away from where I am right now, but I can get there. And if by some chance I don't, I can just land in the water and float over there—though, admittedly, that would scare the _crap _out of me.

Holding my breath, I crouch down and spring for the parachute's island. My limbs flail through the empty air until my knees crash into the soil and I tumble over. I stop just as my shoulder rubs up against some of the white cloth.

I get up wearily, swiping some of the dirt off my knees, though I end up uncovering some scrape wounds in the process.

But I'm too excited about my donation for them to sting much. My hands shake as they lift the parachute gently, and I soon get enough of the ashen cloth away to see what I've gotten.

It's not a weapon, to my disappointment, but I realize it's even better.

It's food.

A simple plate of cheese and crackers is lying on the dirt, and I pluck away the parachute quickly. Real food! Food I don't have to stab or cook or lose my weapons trying to get!

I immediately grab a handful of the stuff, not bothering to take the time to arrange it the way it's supposed to be eaten. All I care about is _getting_ it eaten.

Though I do start to feel a little sick after devouring half the plate, I can't get myself to stop. It's too good, and it'd be useless to save, anyway; the Hunger Games _will _be over by the end of the day.

And when I've finished the crackers and cheese, I realize something I hadn't noticed on the plate before: a little square wrapped in something crinkly and off-white. I pick it up and finger it curiously before finally opening it. And I can't help but giggle when I figure out what it is.

Chocolate. My lovely Mim sent me chocolate.

It's gone in a second. But I very much enjoyed that second.

Feeling infinitely better with a full stomach and the lingering taste of chocolate in my mouth, I stand back up and look around. No other donations seem to be falling from the sky, but that's all right. I can wait...

My thoughts are interrupted by a sudden cannon blast, and I freeze. Someone just died. But who? Kyta? Shaw? Was the victim killed by the other tribute? Where was it? Please don't let anyone be near here! I don't have a weapon, and I'm not ready at all!

I look wildly about the area for a while, but luckily, I don't see anyone.

Heaving a sigh of relief, I set my sights for the land by the mangrove. After all, I doubt the other tribute left is in this dripping wet circle. If I head out toward the Cornucopia, I'll probably have the best chance of finding some—

Suddenly, I scream. Something's pierced my waist. When I look down, all I see is blood streaming out, and a streak of silver and crimson plunging into the water—an arrow bloodied from my own side.

An arrow? Then the other competitor must be...

Another sweep of the area confirms my suspicion: Shaw is slinking through the last of the mangroves, lowering his bow.

I subconsciously put a hand over my wound and stare him down. "So," I pant, "we're the last two, huh?"

"Looks like it," Shaw replies in a monotone, leaning his bow against his shoulder as he walks closer to me.

I glance back at the water beside me. My axe is definitely inaccessible now, and I don't think I could find Shaw's arrow... I cast a desperate look back up the sky, but there are no more parachutes.

"What'cha looking for?" Shaw's comment makes me jump and stare back at him.

"Nothing in particular," I lie, deciding I should keep the eagle eye on him from now on.

Shaw sighs, readying his bow and arrow. "Well, enough chitchat," he decides, taking aim at me again. "Let's end this, shall we?"

"Not just yet!" I jump out of the way when he moves his hand, and I land with one wobbly foot on an adjacent island.

Then I realize Shaw hasn't fired yet.

An arrow rips through my midsection as punishment. I start to descend backward, in slow motion, not completely registering what's going on until I hit the water.

And then I realize my what's happened to my stomach. I end up screaming at the top of my lungs from the agony, especially when my bloody puddle of a wound gets underwater.

But I don't care. I can't. I have to win this. I have to get back to my parents. I have to get back to Iah.

I have to struggle to get my arms up despite the lifejacket, but I manage to make contact with one of the islands. Hyperventilating from the strain and the pain, I still start to tug myself up.

I don't know how long it takes to get my dripping body on top of the island. There's just something about pain or adrenaline that completely annuls time, that warps the boundaries between seconds and minutes.

But however long it took, Shaw hasn't fired at me. I start to lift my face away from the puddle it's made in the dirt; I want to look for what's obstructed him.

But my head is immediately bashed back down.

I shout out in pain again, and struggle to turn sideways—just enough to make out Shaw's heavy boot over the base of my skull.

"So, looks like I win," Shaw comments. I only just make out the glint of one of his arrows. "Any last requests?" he asks arbitrarily.

I struggle, but it's useless. I have no weapons. I have no strength. I have no chance.

I'm going to die here.

"J-Just l-let me say a few things," I whisper, trying to locate one of the Capitol's cameras. My vision's too blurred by tears to see anything.

" 'Kay."

I try to inhale slowly, but I can't. All I get is a terrified, shaking gasp.

"D-Dad. M-Mom," I stutter, unable to talk clearly. "I-I love you. I-I'm sorry I couldn't come back h-home..." I gulp, hyperventilating so much I'm hardly able to. "A-And Laima. I-I know we're not the best of friends... But I'm s-sorry I didn't f-follow your advice about not getting killed..." I try to laugh, but it just comes out as a weak choke. "I-Iah..." I lift my hand up to wipe some tears away. "I-I'm sorry about e-everything... I-I n-never bothered to realize it, but I... I love you..."

And I can't say anymore. I'm just sobbing weakly as my blood, my life drains out from underneath me. Sobbing as I think of what could have been. Me and Iah. Our... grand marriage by the seaside. And we'd have to struggle after hurricanes, but we'd be all right. Because we would have a... lovely marriage, with as many children as we want...

But... If we had children... They may have had to go through this. And... I would be forced to watch, as their names are reaped, as they enter the Hunger Games arena, as they're torn limb from limb by a stronger competitor...

Maybe... Maybe this is better. Maybe... Maybe Mim was right.

Maybe I'm a lucky lady after all.

"You done?" Shaw starts.

"Y-Yes... Th-thank you for letting me say that..." I sniffle.

Shaw sighs. "I told you, I don't like being in debt. So... thank _you_," he whispers, leaning in to my ear, "for letting me win the Games."

And that's the last thing I hear.


End file.
